one true king.

[devotedecay]

❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE . 

feel free to edit or elaborate as you please .   ( add  ‘ reverse ‘  to your message if you’d like to see how my muse would perform the action ) . otherwise , send in one of these for my muse’s reaction to   …

[ lit ]  your muse lighting a cigarette , spliff , etc. for mine . 

[ order ]  your muse ordering for mine at a restaurant or bar .

[ guide ]  your muse putting a hand on mine’s back to lead them .

[ pay ]  your muse paying for mine at a store , bar , restaurant , etc . ( you can specify where or for what . )

[ open ]  your muse opening a door for mine .

[ dry ]  your muse drying mine off with a towel after a shower , bath , swimming , etc . 

[ instruct ]  your muse giving mine instructions / telling them what to do . 

[ groom ]  your muse adjusting mine’s appearance , such as straightening a tie , fixing their hair , or buttoning their shirt for them , etc . 

[ direct ]  your muse taking mine by the chin and telling them to look yours in the eye .

[ disagree ]  your muse sternly telling mine  ‘ no ‘ .

[ rest ]  your muse resting their arm over mine’s shoulder / s .

[ clean ]  your muse cleaning a smudge of something off mine’s cheek , forehead , etc .   feel free to specify what and how . 

[ answer ]  your muse answering a question meant for mine . 

[ coat ]   your muse holds mine’s coat out for them while they put it on .

[ pilot ]  your muse taking mine by the arm , hand , shoulder , etc . to lead them . 

[ stare ]  your muse staring mine down . 

[ placement ]  your muse telling mine to sit down .

[ teach ]  your muse taking control of mine’s hand , arm , hips , etc . to make sure they do something correctly .  

[ patience ]  your muse telling mine to be patient .

[ tears ]  your muse wiping away mine’s tears .

[ swat ]  your muse swatting mine’s hand away from something they’re not supposed to touch .  

[ jewelry  ]  your muse clasping a piece of jewelry for mine , such as a necklace , or earrings . 

[ enough ]  your muse commanding mine to stop talking . 

[ retrieve ]  your muse requesting or ordering mine to retrieve them something .

[ invite ]  your muse inviting mine to sit on their lap .

[ lean ]  your muse inviting mine to lean into their side while they’re sitting or laying together . 

[ calm ]   your muse telling mine to  ‘ just breathe ‘ .

[ scold ]  your muse scolding mine for something .

[ comfort ]  your muse pulling mine into a reassuring hug .

[ approval ]  your muse complimenting mine on a choice they’ve made .

[ beckon ]  your muse beckoning mine to them without speaking . 

[ laces ]  your muse lacing , tying , or zipping something for mine , such as shoes , a dress , or a jacket , etc .

[ stay ]  your muse telling mine to stay in the car . 

[ defend ]  your muse defending mine’s reputation , dignity , or safety for them . 

[ feed ]  your muse feeding mine something , feel free to specify what .

[ volume ]  your muse demanding mine speak louder .

[ read ]  your muse reading something to mine .

[ refill ]  your muse refilling mine’s glass for them . 

[ possessive ]  your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other . 

[thirteenthseal-blog]

Bedivere did not come to Eidolon quietly, or rather, Arthur refused to let him; and for that, he is so very grateful.

Despite the blanket of ease, the peace and the undeniable, all fulfilling love flowing between them now, the King could not seem to quell the bundle of nerves inside of him. It had been an immensely eventful first day for his beloved knight, and he was surely at the center of that result. He had mentioned throughout the week in shy murmurs of apology that he did not mean to be so overbearing, nor did he wish to overwhelm him with his emotions, to which Bedivere always smiled, always flushed pink, always shook his head and held his hands, reassuring him that it had meant the world to him.

He believed him, of course. He’s never once doubted him, and yet...

    “Bedivere.” Out comes the familiar, unruly blond hair from the bunkhouse door, a smile painting his lips in full while he hides a box behind his back. When applicable, Arthur was very capable of finding compromise among others by way of his natural charisma—to which he wasted no time in cooperating with their bunkmates to find a specific time each day that his knight could rest as he needed, undisturbed and free to sleep peacefully. It was the very least he could do. “Are you awake?”

Arthur notes a shift, then, a peek of lighter, long hair falling out past the new comforter he’d bought him a day before. The sight alone makes him beam.

    “Do you have a moment? I’d like to show you something.”

@kingservant

[allenerie]

I rly like this version of saber in FGO TvT got rly happy that he resurface again~~

[soracities]

Natalie Wee, from ‘Least of All’, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my great knight,

A quick briefing on the whys and hows later and Lancelot is standing outside the building, a paper in his hand with a map drawn on it; information on providing which building has which use, where the bunkhouses are and which way leads to other vital places. The only things that joined him in this world is the ring around his finger and Arondight, which he can feels is nearby and waiting for him. Everything else, he was given at the briefing. The wind picks up, billowing through his hair and against his face. The place is covered in snow and for a moment, for a short, brief, fleeting moment he thinks back on the winters he’s spent in his homeland and Britain. The winters in Britain and France had never been dull, but the thing that made both places home and exciting weren’t here now.

Even when Lancelot tries to steady his heart and mind, tell himself to not have any hope for any familiar faces and that this might be the life he grows old in, he still holds hope for one day to greet any of his ilk.

It’s a new start for Lancelot, so far he hadn’t seen any new faces but just like he did when he moved to Britain; Lancelot will adapt and accept for what it is.The only thing he can do is make the best of it, with his duffel bag in his other hand he prepares to make the haul to his living quarters. The snow is thick, slowing him down as he trudges on. The place is obviously new, Lancelot notices different cultures and symbols carved in the buildings, nothing appears to be quite as old as him.

He arrives at his bunkhouse fast, leaves his coat and boots at the door and pads further into the house. No one appears to be at home so that leaves enough time for Lancelot to familiarize himself, find his way to the shared bedroom and get himself set up. Arondight is in plain sight, beautiful and radiant as ever, drawing Lancelot right in.

It seems not all hope is lost if he at the very least has one thing of his homeland. The sword is put away for now as he sets up the bed to his liking with the minimum he has been given.

The sound of footsteps can be heard, the chattering of a couple and it must be the other people who live here. A welcoming distraction, Lancelot rises from his position and turns just in time to see–

“Your Majesty,”

The honour fix slips out without a thought despite them being more than that, the ring on his finger proof of that. Time seems to slow down, he barely pays any attention towards the woman standing next to his king and this feels very much like a déjà vu. Mere moments ago he had accepted the fate of being alone and now his King, husband, he who Lancelot would follow in death stands mere meters away from him. This time they don’t have the privacy of Arthur’s house but at the very least, Lancelot knows he is welcomed here

He blinks, the greeting seems— somewhat stiff? Lancelot offers a small smile and a nod, bowing forward slightly. “It is a very good morning indeed, once again I am reunited with my King.” It is rather easy for Lancelot to fall back into his role as a knight and Arthur as his King. “I am just about done with my business. I see you are well, this place has been treating you kind, yes? How long have you been here, if I may inquire?”

How amusing it must seem to anyone not caught within the bustle of their new lives, a King and his knight standing idle between a sea of faces that neither know their origins nor their history as a pair. Over time, he’s found comfort in that fact—existing solely by his name and face, not his titles, not his status. Here, to those not familiar with him, he is simply Arthur, and Lancelot...

No, Lancelot is so much more than the name he’s been born to. Lancelot is infinitesimal.

Perhaps that in itself is ironic, seeing as the very thought of his name makes it nigh impossible not to smile brighter than before. Arthur’s very next idea is to run to him with open arms, to seek out the warmth belonging only to him, and he nearly acts upon that urge, were they not still in the presence of another.

A King the masses may not recognize him as, at his core, he still wishes not to disrupt others in any way, including through his heart beating a dent into his chest with a yearning to be close to someone he loves so dearly again.

    “Was it your impulses that led you to this place just as mine did, my great knight?” The makings of something playful lace his tone, masked well enough to appear absent from the woman at Arthur’s side, and yet there is no helping the light pink dusting his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. “It is an adjustment, as I’m sure you can tell. I haven’t been here long, a week, nearing two. But with you here, once more does all feel— ah—— ”

His ears perk up to the sound of that same woman struggling to properly situate her bag, to which he attends immediately. Though he would never admit it, (and how shameful would it be to do so) it is impossibly easy to tune out an arena full of people if Lancelot could be found among them. Once more does all feel correct, he would have told him, but this girl needn’t hear such things. Arthur fears he might collapse from overheating if she did.

With the villager accounted for, the King is left bidding her a warm farewell; leaving him, his knight in a comfortable silence. Once she parts, Arthur turns to Lancelot with an ever so sheepish cant of his head, a bright, bright smile, if not apologetic at the same time.

    “Forgive me,” he begins, a shy laugh bubbling up past his lips. “I would hate to startle a young woman should I have simply...” Well, it would be much easier to merely show him. Thus, he steps forth, distance closed without hesitation and he nestles himself easily with his arms wrapped around Lancelot; nuzzling cheek to chest. “...I am so happy to see you.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

oh, bedivere. you are so good.

that is enough to wrench a sob from him, no matter how much he might want to keep it bound up tight inside. one thousand, five hundred years alone, waiting for this. one thousand, five hundred years alone, waiting for him, every bone in his body living only for him, every beat of his heart for him, for him. bedivere had expected a cold reception, criticism well-earned–not this, never this. it strikes the breath from his lungs and he feels like he is adrift again, drowning, cast out to sea by god’s own hand and only the tether to arthur of skin on skin is enough to pull him back to shore.

it strikes him as almost funny, despite the circumstances, the way bedivere looks at each of their tears. his own are the hateful mark of weakness–a clear indicator of his cowardice–a knight should never look so unsightly, red-eyed and tear-stained. but arthur, but arthur, but arthur. he is weeping and laughing despite it and his eyes gleam like gemstones and all bedivere wants to do is take that face into his hands, see the man he loves and tell him–oh, he will never be able to find the words.

but for the first time–he listens to his heart. the knight untangles his fingers from those of his king to lean in, cup his cheeks with a hesitant touch, like too much pressure and arthur will turn to dust in his palms. “my king,” he whispers, brushing his thumbs across arthur’s cheekbones to sweep away what tears still fall. “you are the sun itself. you are everything to me.”

it is awkward, a little, to shuffle across the seat towards the king without letting go of him, but the brief flicker of embarrassment fades to nothing when bedivere leans even closer, presses his forehead to arthur’s and draws in a shaky breath. bedivere had barely realized that anything had gone missing but here, now, he feels whole again. something shattered and discarded comes to life again, fit together piece by piece.

this is love, he thinks. this is what they sing about. this is what i have waited for. oh, arthur. another thousand years would be nothing if it meant i could feel like this again.

what he says, instead of any of that, his voice barely more than the suggestion of a murmur, is: “can we fix it? everything that broke in us over all these years. will you mend it together with me?”

This moment feels like something taken from the mouths of poets. Bedivere, his loyal knight, his shining star, his light amid the darkness, despite all that he loathes about himself with tears in his eyes so bravely reduces the King’s ivory walls to rubble in an instant, in a breath.

He touches him, cradles his face in divine and human hands with a softness that tells him, you have me. Even when the moon vanishes and the sun bids us goodbye, you have me.

Arthur Pendragon has died a million times over. He has watched the ones he loves most turn and leave, corrode to ash in his arms. yet it is here that he feels the most vulnerable. Bedivere touches him. Bedivere tells him things even his dreams could never craft, and his breath hitches like he’d never experienced a sliver of affection—of a love like this before.

You are the sun itself. You are everything to me.

In his mind, his words make the snow beneath them turn to calla lilies, to red and blue salvias, and in some way, Arthur remembers that yearning to rest he felt on that same bloodied hill. Ah… how he’d love to rest, hand in hand with this man, free from doubt and grief and submerged in only their light and their sincerest adoration.

    “Bedivere.” You could have anyone. He thinks of Gawain, of Lancelot, of Tristan, their strengths and their hearts and how beautifully they would compliment him instead. None of them were perfect, he knows, yet it was the bonds they shared, the weight they carried that made them all inseparable. But it didn’t matter to him. You could have anyone, yet you want me. “I—” His lip trembles, and rather than pulling away, Arthur’s hands rest themselves atop Bedivere’s as they hold him close. How easy it would be for him to put an end to what’s left of the distance all together, to lean just a breath forward…

    “There is nothing I want more than for us to mend, together.” Tell him more. Tell him more. “In this life… in this life, and all those following it, I swear to you that never again will I allow myself to be taken away from you. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.” My heart, my heart would not be able to bear it. “So long as we exist, there is nothing we cannot fix.” So long as you exist, there’s no way I cannot be fixed.

    “Bedivere… thank you.” It is Arthur’s turn to listen to his heart. Though it stings to free himself from his grasp, it is worth it for his wish in its place—no hesitation as he wraps his arms around his knight’s neck, and pulls him into a strong embrace, fifteen hundred years overdue, much like these words of his whispered like a secret hymn. “Thank you, Bedivere, my loyal knight. I love you.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

bedivere remembers it differently; bedivere remembers in snapshot flashes, in sketches that last the span of a heartbeat, in fragments of memory torn apart by time and trial. king arthur, at the very gates of death, under bowed and weathered branches. king arthur, smiling so kindly, though he must have been in such pain. king arthur, giving his blessed blade to his knight–a knight shaking like a leaf under his armor, a knight begging god not to let his king die here. not now. not ever.

a hill, a lake, a gentle breeze. a grip that refused to ease. a failure and a betrayal. the ache of loss and loyalty. and king arthur gone; and his knight alone. he had wandered so long, so certain he was to blame. it had been his penance. he does not know if he can bear to believe that all those years of atonement had been for nothing.

(hadn’t this been his greatest fear? because it has been difficult, he had said to the soul of galahad, what if the salvation does not measure up to it when it is over? this is salvation, he thinks. salvation is his king’s green eyes wet with tears, salvation is his king’s hand gripping airgetlám tight once more, salvation is the king of knights saying i’m sorry, and bedivere cannot decide if it measures up.)

“of course i came.” bedivere is crying in earnest now, his flesh and blood hand coming up to scrub angrily at stinging eyes. where the teardrops land, they pockmark the snow, a cryptic pattern that spells out his weakness. what a foolish knight–what a poor excuse for a steadfast guardian, if this is all it takes to make him weep. “if you call, i will run to your side, no matter the distance. it is my duty–no. it is my purpose. all i am… is yours.”

airgetlám’s glow is soft, this time, threads of gleaming white winding their way up the silver, and it lends the knight some courage; enough to turn, just so, face his body and soul towards his king, the way it always aches to be. to look away from arthur wounds him; to treat him so coldly tears his heart to ribbons. “oh, my king. you have never done wrong in your life. i cannot forgive you, because there is nothing to forgive.” through his tears, the smile he offers is weak, but there is something to be said for being able to manage any smile at all.

“i have missed you so desperately. all my borrowed lifetimes, i thought only of you.” where his silver hand had been loose in arthur’s grip, too stunned to react, now it moves to clutch at his with the same devotion. airgetlám thrums, sings. “please don’t apologise. i can hardly bear to hear it.”

Somewhere deep within him, where he is still just a boy and not yet a King, Arthur supposes that these tears were inevitable.

Yet when he shuts his eyes tight, tighter than his trembling hand can tether itself onto Airgetlám for a table scrap, a dove’s feather, an inkling of comfort to keep his feet upon steady ground, and for the first time in so very long feels the stream of warmth slipping down his cheeks does he baffle even himself. He, who so willingly did away with his humanity for the sake of his purpose, he who locked his soul under steel chains in the darkest confines of himself to embody a true and proper King—unfeeling as he may need to be, unfeeling as he was taught he needed to be—can barely believe he is crying, and before his loyal knight, his beloved knight, of all people.

He cries in silence, weeps in hushed tones until the wellspring of sorrow within him seems to fall apart at the spout; until Arthur starts to laugh, unsure, overcome, broken as it may sound once it forces its way out. A King does not cry, for no nobility is found in shows of weakness. He knows how he exists as a living contradiction by thinking of just that, knowing it to be what he learned, and continuing to let the tears flow. 

King Arthur’s heart was buried in the garden, decades ago. Bedivere’s words tell him that even so, he never once forgot where to find it.

    “Oh, Bedivere.” For all of his upset, Arthur could never bring himself to speak his name with anything but adoration. He deserved nothing less, but oh, how he deserved so much more. “You are so good.”

There is some strength found in Bedivere returning his touch, and it wills him to once more move for that human hand as it rises to stop his own tears from falling any further. It feels shameful, to pull and reach out for his knight like a child, the visage of purity and steadfast composure broken to pieces when he looks upon him with clouded, honest eyes. “You have seen me in ways none else have, where I am nigh collapsing at the seams, yet you have continued to treat me as if you see only good when you look at me.” He knows, in this moment now that he says it aloud, that such a devotion runs deeper than servitude.

Please, do not let me be wrong.

    “I have done wrong all my life,” he tells him, gently alongside an impulsive drag of his thumb across Bedivere’s human knuckles, mindful of that sweet heart cased inside his tired body. “I can no longer count how many times I have severed my own emotions like limbs in order to uphold what I believed to be right. I believed it to be selfless, and I...” He laughs again, as if he’d just now realized the truth when he’s known it all this time. “I have never been more wrong in doing so.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow again, tempting to form more tears. He shakes his head, hoping it will stop them before they can commit. No more. If it hurts Bedivere, then please, no more.

    “I will say it once, then never again, should you not wish to hear it. But I am so sorry.” You may think there is nothing to forgive, but for centuries will I try to atone. “I can only hope that you believe me when I tell you how it is I feel, how it is I have felt, even now.” His smile returns, albeit weak, almost cautious.

    “You have always been all that is beautiful in this world to me.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

do you remember the last time we saw one another? the silence that falls after the question is thick enough to suffocate. time comes to a halt, the steady murmur of the creek under its frozen carapace crawling to a standstill, and the only thing bedivere knows is that his heart is still beating, an unsteady rhythm. surely arthur can hear him–surely the whole of eidolon can hear the staccato impact of his heart against the frail cage of his ribs.

of course he remembers. he remembers his king’s soft words and his own trembling hands clinging to excalibur like a lifeline and coming back to nothing but scarlet grass. he remembers that failure like last week, yesterday, like it is happening now, like he is standing on the shores of the lake and pleading with his hands to cast away the sword. if only he had been resolute–if only he had truly been loyal–if only–

the knight finds he cannot bear to look at his king. his hands, clasped in his lap, move to the wood either side of him, airgetlám carving grooves in the grain with silver fingertips. “i do remember, my king… of course i do. how could i ever forget? if not for my cowardice, i–” bedivere cuts himself off, draws in a ragged breath. his gaze is fixed on the cloud that billows out; only when the last mote has melted away does he speak again.

“it is my fault you could not rest. it is my weakness that kept you from death.” if i could go back, if i could give my life for yours, how happy i would be. no–he knows his king well enough to know a comment like that would only harm. sacrifice is only meaningful in the moment. it means nothing to wish for a different past. it means nothing. “you say i have made no mistake, but i–but what mistake could be worse than that? i am so sorry, my king. i did not want to lose you. i could hardly bear it.”

he realises, now, that he is crying–tears collecting crystalline on his lashes, not quite brave enough to fall. it has been too long, too long. oh, arthur. such cruelty can come from love. if you never forgive me, i–

–i will understand.

He closes his eyes, and suddenly, he reawakens beneath that same worn tree. 

The gentle breeze greets him like an old friend, the loving union of orange and red at the skyline almost enough to distract him from that inevitable, sharp scent of iron weeping out from him. This vision, this special death, forever will he clutch onto the peaceful feeling here, one that borders on being unnerving were he to think a level deeper about it. He could rest here, he always thinks. He could stop here, and the doubts sized to blocks of gold nestled comfortably atop his shoulders could simply die with him, never to tear him open for all to see.

But he hadn’t died. Not here, not atop this hill. Though he came so close, death did not claim him how it would have liked, and perhaps how he would have liked as well, just this once.

In this dream, his life hangs on by the red thread curled around his wrist. It’s pulled so taut, as if his very being is spread out across it—until it grants him slack once the person on the other end finds him leaning back against the weathered trunk, and kneels before him.

    “Bedivere.” Arthur listens intently, swallowing the guilt that bubbles up in his throat with each and every word his loyal knight wrings himself dry to finally say, barely forcing back his wince once he catches the reflection of tears against his eyelashes. It feels like a wound reopening, knowing how deeply Bedivere’s loyalty ran, knowing he only wished to preserve that effigy of loyalty even if it killed him. He used to believe it was merely an obligation, merely the inevitable result of a knight answering to his king, but he is not the same foolish self he was then. He knows good and well that he was not, is not, will never be innocent in all that befell the round.

I won’t allow anyone to call you foolish. He remembers this the clearest.

    “You were not at fault.” These words are hard to form, and even harder to drag out, feeling something akin to the icicles in the not so distant enclosure. He glances, then, from Bedivere’s face to his fingers carving into the spaces beneath them and leaves his gaze there. “And you were not... are not weak. Had I known I—” Had I known I wouldn’t get to say goodbye, perhaps I could have forced myself to stay. “—What happened was out of your control, as my own. There was never a way to ensure what became of that vision of mine... nor was there ever a way to ensure that you would come.”

Any of the knights could have, all if not one, but it was him. It was always him. How could he forget that? How could he ever pass that off as mere coincidence?

    “Yet you came.” His eyes narrow in a wistful resignation, teardrops dancing across the edges. Arthur’s head droops, and that need to ground himself, that selfish want to comfort finally, finally after decades upon decades of being left alone with his thoughts instead of continue to hinder bleeds into impulse. His hand finds Bedivere’s, for the second time; clinging on as if he might disappear again if not. “You call your acts ones of cowardice, yet it was your bravery, your loyalty that led you to me, to answer when none else did. That alone... seeing you, brought me such joy.”

    “I wanted to thank you, for finding me then. But most of all, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. “I wanted to tell you that I am sorry, for I never had a chance to tell you goodbye, or if I would return... and I wanted to tell you that I missed you.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

from a distance–even one as small as this, the span of a single step, crossed in a heartbeat–it is impossible to forget why loyal knight bedivere loves his king so. there is weak sunlight bleeding through sullen clouds; walking through white plains, he had paid it no mind, other than to resent the glare it cast on the snow, but here–here, under the trees, it is luminous. it falls through the filter of the canopy and lays dappled fingers on arthur’s hair like a halo and to bedivere the man looks more like a saint than a king.

the king of knights does not belong in a place like this, he thinks. arthur is divine and sunlight embodied and gleaming and it is wasted on a snow-dusted nowhere like eidolon. arthur shines from the core of his heart and lights the world with his barest breath and there is something terrible about bedivere being the only witness, here in this frosted glade.

“i could guide us home, no matter how far we wander, my king. i remember the path.” that had been one of the few skills to his name as a member of the old round table. impeccable sense of direction. it had been… situational, at best; armies do not often need to wander, and noble knights do not often need a guide. not for the first time, and not for the last, he wonders: why did he ever choose me?

when arthur invites him to sit, he does, as close to the edge as he can manage. it would do neither of them any good for an idle hand to wander too close, seeking warmth.

his king’s comment catches him off guard. something to share–? surely, were it something good, he would have shared it in the bunkhouse–surely their distance from the village, the silence that bears down on them between each breath, can only bode ill. surely, surely, surely. “–oh? you never mentioned. if i have made a misstep, then please, i can only offer you my most heartfelt apologies…”

From where he’s sitting, Bedivere himself resembles something angelic. The light compliments him in ways no mere words could describe, nothing like himself, timid sunbeams and powder white snow a backdrop that exists solely to accentuate him. He’d like to tell him how radiant he looks, something about the loose strands of pale hair spilling from his bun, the still present bits of cloth peeking out from beneath his armor, him as a whole all coming together to nearly render him breathless were he brave enough to show it.

Relief blankets him once his knight agrees to sit, and with all he is does Arthur will that relief to domineer his emotions even as a dull, aching type of sorrow surfaces from within as Bedivere sits so, so far from him. He knows the thought is irrational, knows that his knight would move mountains and earth for his sake and his sake alone if he asked it of him. If he told him to, that is the boundary between status and soul. Quietly, and as if to keep himself grounded, the king sets his hand down against the space between them.

Bedivere is too loyal to a place that does not exist here, too kept within himself to ever compromise that boundary. He knows this, and that is what hurts the most. Perhaps he’d truly added to that divide.

    “You...” look lovely. No, no, that is the farthest from proper. You remind me of the morning sky, of the ocean tides at dawn. You are so many things wrapped in one, all of which I adore. He can’t phrase his words this way. He simply cannot. It frustrates him, and his nervous laugh gives him away, just maybe. “Pardon me. I don’t mean to appear so scattered.” But I am, but I am, but I am. “Even so, no, you’ve made no mistake.”

    “Do you remember the last time we saw one another?”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

somewhere along the way, bedivere has come adrift.

he had dressed himself in such a rush, too eager to go on another adventure with his king (just like old times), that all his loose fabric had gotten caught under the steel of his armor and he had hardly paid it any mind until arthur saw him again. the king of knights had laughed, hand over his mouth like it was some great secret, and the bell-chime of it had made sir bedivere flush pink. that was normal–that was how things should have been–used to be.

but it is not how a knight should treat his king, and for all arthur’s talk of walking side by side as equals, bedivere has spent the walk cooling his heart. from walking abreast with him in easy rhythm, to lagging a step behind, trying to match his steps to the crisp prints left in the snow. his hands are laced behind his back and his spine is rigid straight despite how the difference in height between them makes him want to slouch. this, he tells himself, is how a knight is meant to act. a guardian, not a companion. none of the knights of the round are worthy of walking at king arthur’s side–and especially not one such as bedivere.

(arthur let his hand go, after all. he must have had second thoughts about the folly of it all. boundaries need to be maintained.)

their path takes them out of the village and into the trees, and if bedivere closes his eyes halfway he can almost pretend he’s in the woods back home, treading familiar paths in the deep heart of winter. there had been easy banter, at the start, a familiar rhythm of conversation that came so easily even after all these years, but it had faded to nothing as bedivere’s responses became clipped and curt, and when they come across a clearing now opening his mouth to speak feels like heresy.

“should we rest here, my liege? even your legendary endurance must surely be faltering. this place seems safe enough to stay awhile.”

The absence of his knight’s company does not go unnoticed, not for a second.

Of course, he parts for that insurmountable wish of Bedivere’s genuine comfort – not the porcelain mask he wore to emulate it like a second skin  – even if mere seconds felt like hours and the eagerness fluttering throughout him bordered on the cusp of discomfort for himself. It was worth it, as it ended; it was worth it when it meant bearing witness to a sight so reminiscent of the past, Arthur’s less than subtle reactions to what he deemed adorable resulting in the fluster of his otherwise stoic, noble knights without fail.

Those moments are what he missed most of all, almost, only paling in comparison to the living, breathing forms of that same beloved table. He had held onto his prior hope of mutuality, hoping what he sought was not far from what Bedivere sought. They could rebuild here, the freedom to pick up the shattered glass and delicately fuse it back in place so long as they tried.

But it would seem Arthur had overstepped in his abundant hope.

Though they begin with such strength, he notes the very instant his knight withdraws in both presence and spoken word. To say it is unfortunate would be voicing it minutely, yet he does not question it aloud—no matter how badly he wants to.

If nothing else, they have the day. The chatter and bustle of the village square fades into background noise, then to silence amid the frosted trees. Nature, donned in her finest cloth offering her calming embrace where all else fails to provide it. It isn’t Bedivere’s fault, truly. It’s he that should have known better.

    “I fear we may lose our way should we go any further,” he responds gently, glancing up towards Bedivere as he does. The spot is pleasant, nestled in between strong tree trunks and a still frozen creek, a perch fit for two untouched by the new layer of snow. So he rests there, takes a seat and invites the other to join him with a cant of his head. “While we’ve the moment, there is something I wish to share with you.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

arthur loves all his knights, send tweet

[thirteenthseal-blog]

Genuinely, the week’s endless reveals had brought a certain spring to the King’s step. It felt as if luck itself had wrapped her arms around him with a stern determination, granting him his dearest wishes in seeing those that he loved most another time, where perhaps they all could find what they sought more than anything in their lives before this Diaidem and her frozen world let them rise from their ashes.

Bedivere was the first to blanket him in a sense of security by presence alone, then Tristan, what felt like a breath after. Faces he adored, coming so close together, brightening Arthur from the inside out until that light he fought tooth and nail to embody was all he could show. Truly, he felt overjoyed, as if each reunion only worked towards the literal completion of himself, puzzle pieces being fit back to make a proper man once again.

So perhaps, he should have expected who would come next. He thinks upon his new reality as he walks alongside another new villager, always so eager to help those around him. The one with a strong history, with a deep emotion bound so tightly to his very existence that the mere thought of him could unleash an avalanche upon this place of peace from how passionately it all ran.

And yet, he does not expect it. He does not expect to see that all too familiar mess of unruly, purple hair, knelt down to situate his bunk to his liking—that much shows in how the bag in his arms nigh slips from his grasp out of utter surprise, Arthur ungraceful in how he dips to catch it before it hits the ground.

Lancelot rises and turns, then time itself stills.

    “...Ah.” He meets him with wide eyes, barely parted lips and a tighter grip on the duffel that had almost escaped him a moment earlier from the very sight of a man he knew, loved well and as deeply as his people, as his fellow knights, as all that is good and right in these worlds. A man that carried his sorrow with the same iron will as Bedivere did, in which Arthur wished to reassure them both, time and time again... and he’s gawking now, isn’t he? 

    “Lancelot. Good morning. I hope I have not disturbed your adjusting, here.” But oh, how glad I am to see you again.

@launncelot

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my honest knight,

Tristan waits for something he can’t name, alone in the snow, gloved fingers coaxing a song from his beloved Failnaught. The serenade it offers him is mournful, regretful, and soon he’s joined with it– eyes ever shut, snowflakes crowning him with bitter chill. 

As if immune to the cold in this solitary state of lamentation, he lies back in the snow, cape spread beneath him like a blanket. Certainly it does little by way of warmth, but he sings unhindered, low and sweet. Perhaps he feels that it suits him to lie here, forgotten by all…

All but one, it would seem. The harp feels him before Tristan can see him, but both of them know it at once; their King walks before them once again. Like a spirit from the catacombs he rises, softly combing crystals from his hair. He finds that he can’t look at him directly, though, so rather than attempt eye contact he clutches Failnaught close, sinking to one knee in the midst of powder-white.

“My King…” he utters, though it sounds a little uncertain. “If you’ll still have me, that is…”

In a time long before this one, Arthur learned to cherish the fragmented memories from each and every incarnation he witnessed. Though he cannot hold them all to perfect memory, what stays with him is treasured with an adoration that even those in possession of all the world’s riches could never truly match. It was these memories that would carry him throughout his many trials and tribulations, kindling to add to the flame that was his very soul.

One of which, was Tristan’s song. Unforgettable, and never to be misinterpreted for another’s by the resolute, sweet sorrow intertwined into its melody. 

It is no surprise, then, when that irreplaceable sound hits his ears and he follows it subsequently without a shred of hesitation. Arthur knows this time that this is not a dream, knows that he is awake and with one knight already beside him in the great white, the arrival of the others was no longer an unattainable wish. One by one, they gather, and it is that firm thought that guides him directly to the origin of the bittersweet symphony.

What does catch him off guard thereafter is how he finds Tristan, nestled into the fresh snow while he allows his song to speak for him. He reminds him of a bed of roses, a flash of vibrancy where color has otherwise left them. Though it bemuses him to find him like this, the sight of another, beloved knight makes Arthur feel at ease.

    “Tristan.” He thinks to stop him from kneeling, preferring to greet him as a companion instead of a subordinate. If you’ll still have me, he says, willing Arthur’s eyes shut for a hushed, almost sheepish exhale before they reopen to gaze upon him again. As if he would ever turn away those that emboldened his spirit when even he did not realize he needed it. “Fret not, for you too will always be one I hold dear. Please, rise.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

compared to the blooms of sensation that unfurled at arthur’s touch, the absence feels like he is back in that sun-seared wasteland. leagues from another and trapped within his own ribs and teetering on a thousand years of isolation. the knight barely manages to quell his first impulse–to reach out, to catch calloused fingertips, to pull his king closer until they could be a single being, hearts beating in easy unison. instead, airgetlám, left to rest at bedivere’s side, loses its light and returns to cold metal, and his heart aches with the loss of it.

he does not mention any of this, of course. all he would have to say is please, do not let me go, and he is certain that his king would move the fundament of heaven itself to keep the two of them together, but–what if his faith is misplaced? is there still punishment looming for his betrayal? he can feel the anxiety of it lapping at his ankles like an eager tide and bedivere buoys himself by seeking out arthur’s gaze again when it drifts up from the mess at their feet, holding it even if everything he’s ever learned about showing due respect is screaming at him to avert his eyes.

you are meant to kneel to royalty, but he cannot so much as bow his head. if he missed even a moment of this, he would never forgive himself.

“i sincerely doubt i would be able to get to sleep, knowing you were waiting for me to wake again,” he comments wryly. as if a proper rest is anywhere within his reach, at the moment. as if tonight will be anything but sleepless with the thought of arthur dreaming so close. “i can–tidy this, and dress myself, and whatever you wish for us to do, we can do. i will follow in your wake, as is my solemn duty.”

How poetically tragic they must seem from the outside looking in: their lamentation through separation being so unsparingly mutual, yet falling on deaf ears between them. It is with a heavy heart that Arthur releases Bedivere’s hands from his grasps, once more putting himself miles and miles beyond all whom he loves with every bit of his soul if it means his knight will breathe easier. For impulse, in the end, is unbecoming of a King, and he chastises himself thrice over in his mind for allowing it to guide his now empty palms.

With or without the contact he so craved, the moment still lingered. The pause is long, once more; something he debates whether or not to break so that he might voice more concerns for him, not himself, not their surroundings just yet. Tell me how you feel. Tell me what you want, over and over like a modern record scraping into repetition. I long for change, and I can only hope that you feel the same. I can only hope...

He is as honest as ever, if not without his fire. The weariness adorning Bedivere’s features cannot be hidden, yet he does not look away from him, nor does he pad his responses with anything that would appear unbecoming on his own behalf. He admires him so dearly for that, even if somewhere deep within remains a dull ache of sorrow knowing that he too still feels bound to roles that none else among the great white follow.

    “Then I shall weave a dream-catcher for you myself once you do rest, to ensure you peace all throughout it.” And should you need me, never will I be far from you. Arthur hums, a chuckle bubbling past his curled lips. It is clear as day that Bedivere is unwavering in his decision, and the King is not one to combat him. “However, I would sincerely hope you stand beside me as we go.” Here, we are equals. That alone makes him smile so much brighter. “But, if you are that determined...”

    “Come, dress and then take a walk with me.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

“whatever our circumstances may be, i am sure that a few bumps and bruises will not be the end of me, my king. you need not worry for one such as i; i am sturdier than i look.” his lips part again, a hundred idle statements about how the king’s worry would be better spent on someone worthy of the attention ready to trip off his tongue, but–now does not seem the time for it, and his face settles back into a kind smile as king arthur moves his hands to clasp slender silver fingers.

airgetlám lights up under arthur’s touch, a million burned-out nerves firing all at once, as if excalibur still remembers its master, as if bedivere’s love for his king has bled into the silver. it is more than fitting that every part of the knight should sing at the barest brush against arthur’s radiant spirit. the sudden shock of it takes bedivere’s breath away, and his response comes far later than it should, words fighting for coherence through a sudden haze.

“it would be a dream come true for this place to bring us all together again,” and it’s not necessarily an exaggeration–he’s dreamed of a grand reunion, but it has always ended the way the rest of his dreams do, and something settles heavy in the pit of his stomach at the thought of seeing the other knights again, living and breathing. would they still hate him, the way they did in the holy city? would they still want to tear him apart? it doesn’t bear thinking about, so he stops, takes a moment to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear with his newly freed hand and settle his nerves.

“well, maybe they will get sick of me wasting all your precious time, and come to remedy my multitudinous mistakes. but–no, no, of course not–i am fully rested and ready to face the day, my liege, i swear it. let not this weary visage fool you,” he adds, unconvincingly, and then dissolves into quiet laughter–this whole situation is so absurd and delightful all at once, how could he do anything else?

    “I was unaware you were so particular about being teased,” he tells him easily, head canting in a way that those unruly blond locks shift and threaten to cover up the slight mischief twinkling in his eyes thereafter. “Yes, I have no doubts in regards to your ever-present tenacity, my knight. But a bit of caution would not harm either of us, would it?” It feels right, completing even, to be able to talk so simply and share a moment with Bedivere he swore upon the vast expanse of stars he would be unlikely to ever have again. He longs for it to not be fleeting, as the world may move around them, it feels infinitely still here.

Airgetlám’s light brings about a feeling of nostalgia in the same way the thorns of guilt prick at his insides, Arthur’s lips parting in quiet awe at how it responds to him after all this time. He notices, of course, the elongated pause his impulse brings; worry threading itself into his expression with enough concern for Bedivere before himself, before his many questions and comments that he nigh timidly eases his knight’s hand down to free it from him. An apology dances from the back of his mind to the tip of his tongue. I’m sorry, it would be so easy to say in theory. I’m sorry for everything.

But his voice draws him in from the the sea of thoughts he could without hesitation drown himself beneath, attention rising from his knight’s idle hand up in time to catch him shifting, to which he smiles once more. Any action, any words that come from him soothe even if he does not try to. He hopes to at some point, properly voice his appreciation, now that they have time, and only time.

    “I have only time,” his thoughts turn to words, hoping to reassure his knight whether or not the others join them amid the snow. “Even if I did not, any time spent with you is of no waste.” Such was true when it came to all of his dearest knights, and never would Bedivere be an exception. Should they come, should conflict arise between them, he would see to it it was remedied. The last thing any needed was more distress than what they already carried with them.

    “Hm, but are you so certain?” Another tilt, Arthur glancing down to finally realize just what the other is wearing, the mess of blankets beneath him. He makes a mental note to buy him properly fitting attire this evening, either way. “You were quite obviously trying to rest, if nothing else...” And he’d come and disrupted him. How unbecoming. “If you are tired, please take care of yourself. I can extend my offer to you after you’ve done so.”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

“it is only right for a knight to fret over the wellbeing of his king,” bedivere insists, though the otherwise plaintive comment is ruined somewhat by the smile that refuses to leave his face. the flutter of his heart in his chest, an erratic beat against his ribs, steals any bite from the words. oh, he couldn’t argue with arthur, even if he wanted to. just the sight of him soothes his soul too much to muster up any genuine protest.

it is not until bedivere is on his feet again, idly nudging his blankets into something resembling a neat pile with one foot, that he realizes this is real. late to the party, as always. he’d wanted to believe that it was just his mind playing some terrible trick on him, a sweet dream due to turn any minute now into a nightmare, but–even his own guilty conscience could not conjure up such a convincing illusion of warmth.

bedivere has not felt much of anything for a long, long time now. airgetlam has wrenched his nerves out through the tips of his fingers with the pain of it, and the world has long since turned dull. the knight is used to it, he thinks; you can only miss something for so long, and the numbness is familiar. but where arthur’s hands are clasped around his own, bedivere feels radiance, and it stuns him. this is real, and arthur is here, barely a breath away, with his fingers on the knight’s own like an anchor, and bedivere can feel it. the fact that he can stay upright is nothing short of a miracle.

“my noble king,” he starts, and then pauses, everything he wants to say catching in his throat–how i’ve missed you, perhaps, or the world has been so much dimmer without your smile, or even something as simple as we should go somewhere, alone. instead, the knight blinks hard, once, willing the dam to hold and his tears not to fall, and says “are the other knights of the round here, too?”

(no, that isn’t what he meant to say at all.)

The contradiction between words of insistence and that smile, brighter than the freshly fallen snow outside only bolsters his own crooked smile, until it is strong enough to make him laugh a second time: genuine, wholehearted and unguarded by his ivory walls when met with someone he perhaps, should have known would find him again. It makes sense, now that he begins to consider it.

Of course he’d come. He was always there, loyal to the bitter end in all worlds and walks of his many lives, only here that bitterness begins to bleed into something like joy, 

    “And yet I will continue to fret over your own if you aren’t more careful, Bedivere. I’ve yet to determine the full extent of our circumstances here.” Half jest, half sincere his response is, in the spaces where their voices end and comfortable silence begins again, Arthur glances down to where their hands stay clasped together. Airgetlám. The shining silver construct a blessing and a curse intertwined. There is the slightest pang of guilt, then, buried beneath the steadfast visage of the King’s proper image; a far away memory of his blade in Bedivere’s two arms.

Delicately, Arthur frees one hand from his knight’s bare one, the other sliding beneath silver knuckles so that his other may join its partner atop his palm. He debates this action twice over, yet remains, expression lowering itself to a soft simper.

    “No, none I have found but you, at the very least.” It begs the question of if Bedivere has come, will they follow? There’s no way to tell for sure, and yet... and yet he is here, and that means something. It means the world. “Though with how quickly these residences are filling up, perhaps— ah, I interrupted your rest, didn’t I?”

[thirteenthseal-blog]

my loyal knight,

there’s no way this can be real. maybe he really did doze off, head under the covers and fighting off his ever-busy mind; he’s dreaming, now, because there’s–no way he could be here, right now, with his king. he searched for over a thousand years, last time, while his body turned to dust under excalibur’s veneer and his mind threatened to break. he searched until his body turned to stone on the shores of avalon, and then further beyond that.

bedivere has been here not even a day, and his search is already complete. it has to be a dream.

only–none of his dreams are like this. the knight dreams of betrayal that rings out across the centuries; the knight dreams of sins, and of hellfire, and of duly-deserved punishment. he does not dream of kneeling on the floor of his makeshift living quarters, blankets pooling underneath him, gazing bleary-eyed at the man to whom he gave his heart. he does not dream of wearing pyjamas with a sailboat motif that are a size too small because he didn’t want to inconvenience the general store employee by asking if they had anything longer in the leg.

he does not dream of arthur’s hands on his shoulders, a gentle grip, sending radiant warmth down the line of his back and bringing color to his cheeks. it feels like the sun is shining inside of him. he does not deserve to have those dreams, for what he did. he does not deserve any of this.

“of course,” he says, laughing in small sharp bursts like the sound surprises even him. his eyes are shining with the threat of grateful tears, but his composure holds for now. “what kind of knight would i be if a tumble like this could do me harm? come now, my king, i should be asking you. i hope i did not startle you too badly. your composure is legendary, but even a heart as noble as yours cannot stand up to too much shock.”

His knight’s words flow like the purest waters, and Arthur can hardly help breathing a great sigh of relief. No, not because of the fall, (and so much like him indeed, to take one and merely laugh in the face of it, so sure of himself, so unfaltering akin to the brightest of stars) but rather the reality that hits once his gloved palms sit on broad shoulders. The images of dreams were never corporeal before, yet such could surely exist—such is what he would have expected before now, to be reunited with any of those who held him the highest in life only to wake the moment his hands make contact. Always would he wake with a smile, no matter how wistful it truly was.

But Bedivere does not fade away when he touches him, nor does Arthur wake from one of his many distant dreams. Warmth blossoms beneath his hands, as if given from him to his knight personally and if only for the sake of ensuring his well-being first does he refrain from poking fun at the pink dusting his cheeks in petals. He is very much here, very much alive, and these facts loop endlessly like a mantra. Here and alive. Here and alive.

    “I should have known you to make such comments,” he replies, a lopsided smile painting his lips alongside the relaxing of his shoulders in his own little laugh. “You have all but fallen from the sky and you worry about my health.” Ah, it can only be you. I knew you by the sound of your voice.

It soothes him to know Bedivere is well regardless, a deeper relief settling around him like a blanket in the moments he spends then shifting, his hands moving to clasp at the other’s gently; suggesting, not ordering him to rise with a light squeeze. “Let’s get you on your feet then, before either of us endure too much surprise.”