LION // HEART

-Gives him dinosaur shaped vitamins-  / @lampguided​

Eyes light up as the colourful little things are all but shoved at him, shapes much like the strange creatures he had once read about in books that had been long, long before his time. Some almost looked like dragons though he knows them not to be so, knows them for what they are as he received them with honeyed laugh as he turned them upon his palm.

A familiar clinking and a familiar look of the armor when spotted from further away, Illyasviel started making her way towards the Saber in hopes of showing something to her, wanting to spend some time with her. Yet, when closing the distance between them, Illyasviel begun to hesitate. With a few more steps and a spin, she blocked his path forward.

“Saber..?” Trailing off, Illyasviel stared at the Servant with a blank face. It was a surprise, finding the face so familiar and yet not so much so - a strange feeling. Yet, she wasn’t sure who the person actually was. A frown overtake her expression as she continued staring; she was sure that her mother would scold her from staring so much.

“You’re not Saber.”

                                                     @annwyfn​ // starter call

Child apparent barring his way halted his path as deftly as the girl might have hoped, silver clad knight drawing to stop as confusion dawned itself upon her face, a frown as if she were near disappointed to find he and not another. Mere notion drew softest of laughs from him, breathy cadence as she spoke her unhappiness at him as if he had somehow slighted her by not being who she had anticipated.

Armour clattered as he shifted, one knee meeting ground as arms braced across it to find something close to ease as he sought to meet her gaze squarely. 

"You are loosing a lot of blood, hold on still or i will be forced to take drastic measures." /riparthur / @lampguided​

Far be it from Arthur to argue with one so esteemed, least of all when side was torn open, armour shredded by vicious claws as if it had been no more than paper before beast. A wise man would not have, would have submitted to her words and care for with crimson painting him in flowing streaks it was sorely needed. Arthur though had never claimed to be a wise man, and for all he is certainly far from a stupid one stubbornness was deeper set within him than near anything else.

At very least he does not pretend he is fine, has sense enough for that as gauntlet clad fingers wrap tight around holy blade.

“Others need your expertise more than I.” For she was skilled, exceptionally so, and Arthur was hardly only casualty. Smile graced pallid skin, warm and what he hopes is something akin to comforting even as corners of eyes pinch against the discomfort. “Tend them first, I won’t go anywhere.”

Lancelot should have expected this response. It’s Arthur, after all, and so he acted like Arthur even when he shouldn’t have. Even if logic dictates that you do not offer things to a monster, an enemy, the thing shrouded in curses and overbearing guilt. What is this, a joke? (Still, and ever-present.) Hackles raised, Lancelot leaning forward and with the fog bristling off of him, prickly and turning sharp angles.

“You think I can guard you, you think I want–” A barking laugh, humorless and inhuman. (He doesn’t cry, but this is no different.) Of course he wants to. That’s what love is, this clawing thing that cuts off his words and makes him only sharp-edged. It’s love, the screaming demand to be hated and for Arthur’s blade to sink into his neck. He grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead, near doubled over before he looks back up at Arthur.

Arthur would be honoured, as king and friend. Even still, he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get a goddamn thing, and maybe that’s part of why Lancelot loves him, all this unbearable optimism and the choice to be open-hearted. It is, ultimately, exactly what King Arthur would say to him. “I’m not – don’t.” Not his friend, not his knight, not anything. (It’s as if Arthur’s hand is offered, and Lancelot wants so badly to take it, but knows he would do nothing but break it. You cannot invite a wolf into your home. All that nonsense.)

He tastes blood, gunpowder. (How can Lancelot be expected to guard this weakness when the weakness is Arthur’s forgiveness, the kind smile?) “It’s a threat, take it, I am not your knight!” The words tear from him with a violence of their own, edged in the curse’s distortion. (Surely, even Arthur cannot call him blameless through this.)

Arthur has seen enough cornered animals on hunts to know when something fearing so vastly, so unerringly, that it is written into all it might be. He has seen enough of it, and so he knows it here when he finds it in Lancelot.

It was hardly unexpected, a Berserker by design and Arthur knew well the potential nature of such things, the way better parts could be twisted into worse things until it was unclear where the truth even rest. How his heart ached at very notion, desire to reach out quelled only by knowledge it would do far more harm than good here.

And even yet he loves, terribly and desperately for he who had once been most dear of friends. Though all the thicker the poison that had been pressed to his lips at his subsequent betrayal, at everything that had followed as he had wondered what he might have done to prevent such tragedy for errant ways of his knights would always settle blame upon he who presided as King.

       Truly, the most exasperating thing about man was at any moment, in any breath, they could present themselves as easy to read or infuriatingly difficult; Gilgamesh found this Saber toed the careful line between them akin to his counterpart. Commentary that would otherwise receive his full ire caught tongue instead, a blade as sharpened as any in his arsenal. An intrigued tilt of head and gilded earrings chimed in slight dance, allowing the sword-bearer to lead lest Gilgamesh be tasked with clearing the way.

       ❝ Entertain me with your opinion, then, Saber. I will hear it. ❞ Languid words dripped from his lips like honey akin to the drops that kissed the leaves overhead, only to tumble to their end upon forest floor. A trudge through such a dreary environment deserved this much, and above all, his curiosity had been piqued at the similarity in mannerisms this iteration shared with the King of Knights he was more familiar with. ❝ Do you believe the powerless should always warrant the protection of the powerful? ❞

       For one who surely wreathed himself in his morals as staunchly as he wore his armor, perhaps Arthur Pendragon would agree with such a sentiment. And oh, how fascinating it would be to pry him apart.

Entertain as if he were some puppet-- a marionette pulled along to Archer’s design and Arthur had little doubt that more ancient between them perhaps saw it that way, but he had lived his life playing the part in other’s scheme’s and this man was no true puppet master. At least not where Arthur came to be.

He asked complex questions, ones age old in nature, but the answer to Arthur had never been complicated. Nor was it even duty entirely. It was a matter of rightness, of doing the thing which would bring ease to those suffering and relief to those who were hurt. Simplicity in its most true of forms, but Arthur could not help but wonder if the other saw that much in it or whether he was blind. Worse yet Arthur supposed it might be that he merely did not care.

“Do you believe me weak?” Head canted, verdant regarding over shoulder as he waded ever determined through brash. “I do not always feel strong, and I am certain some would say I am not. Others however would say I am. Who is anyone to judge another’s strength without knowing what they have endured to become who they are? Powerlessness to one is strength to another, Archer.”

❛ survive and be strong - or die ❜ / @lacobscur​ /  some ask meme

A dogmatic view perhaps but had they not stood at the head of everything and lost so, so much? Had Lancelot himself not taken that and more something softly whispers in, a quiet ache in the very marrow of his bones that he speaks not of even yet, a hurt tucked away as ever for sake of others about him even as it carved grim pattern into heart.

He should be angry he thinks and something in him is, something in him rages quietly against everything that has been taken and denied. Yet he is not a bitter man even now, not truly, and so for all ever bright sorrow he chooses instead to smile.

Arthur does not think he is the better man but his integrity is unquestionable, the bright star that it is even on darkest of days.

So he smiles, a soft curl of lips that does not entirely reach verdant eyes but is earnest even yet-- a tired smile, but one offered to old friend who he loves dearly even yet for he is capable of nothing but that. A cursed heart which loves, loves, and loves so unashamedly.

Even when the other might be deemed monstrous.

some ask meme

He comes to sit beside one of his dearest friends– one who had been there always when no other had, for loyalty was a deeprooted thing and for all it had been denied from Arthur on so many occasions where it had mattered a great deal from Bedivere there had never been question or doubt.

So to see him lament so, all tired and fractious, cut gentle king deep in heart for he loved easily and openly in his own ways. Cared vastly and with such infinite melody that to see one who had place within his soul ill at easy could only ever spur but one course of action from him, selfless thing that he was; this servant king, bound even yet to duty when such should have been unshackled from him when breath had stuttered to a cold, dead stop.

“Is that not but human nature?” Hands clasped upon knees, steel clad fingers interlocking heedless of the awkward way armour caused them to do so for he had been clad in it for so terribly long that it might be no more than second skin to he. 

some ask meme

Survival of the fittest. The first law of nature as many saw it for it was a dog eat dog world, one prone to the worst of cruelties against those who were undeserving but had been rendered too powerless to entirely stop it. That was the way of things, that unending cycle, a wheel of so many spokes with each connecting into an oppressive design.

There had been many kings before Arthur and many more after, so many of which were remembered solely for their strength if they were remembered at all. That had never been his wish though in the private moments he had allowed himself to wish at all, for Arthur would have rather been known as a good man– a just man– than a strong one.

Strength did not always mean better, did not even mean alive if one were particularly foolish enough to wield so called strength at wrong person or cause.

So he takes Rider’s point magnanimously, inoffensively even, ever understanding because that was his way. Complacently though? That he was not. “There will always be good people ready to stand in defence of those some might be cruel enough to deem ‘weak’. Our worst of weaknesses is found when we stand alone, for no man is an island and real strength is lending ourselves to support those most in need.”

Twas not simply in the ability to flail a sword with something close to finesse for all Arthur did so and did it spectacularly, it was not in the physically prowess in which Arthur exemplified.

It was in the heart, soft and tender. Vulnerable when to be so was dangerous– to be kind when the world was cruel in return.

He contemplates for a long minute, before:

“We could weaponize an airhorn–”

“Ah, were we needed for something…?”

some ask meme

Honesty became the man, for even in the worst of folks there must be some modicum of honour lest they be no more than feral beasts running amok in a brutal frenzy. Perhaps Lucius to many was monstrous and terrible, but Arthur has no doubt that to just as many so too is he for perspective was a complicated thing– a hero to one was a villain to another, and heroics in the end were no more than a sham to cover insecurity.

There were no heroes in the end, not really. It stood to reason then that so too were there no villains. Only men following their causes and for all their differences, for all the rifts impossible to pass between them, this was something Arthur knew well and true for it had perhaps been the very first lesson Merlin had taught him all those years ago when he had been a person before a king.

So he respects, even when he should not, for it is his nature.

But to demurely accept did not make him a placid lamb before harpy of Rome, for a lion’s teeth were vicious in defense of own cause.

“No man can blame his actions on any but himself; to do so is to be but cowardly and naive.” A sigh as heavy heart beat as ever in its cage, soft thud against confines of ribs. “A dishonour of the worst kind.” And as a knight, king, and as Arthur Pendragon for all he might ever be the very notion was revolting.

And yet of course there was more. There was always more. An unending struggle, one ticking on and on. “But there is no pride in violence, no honour in that either.” Necessity though for at times there was no other way, and that was their burden and duty alike. 

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” he replied. “I wasn’t aware it was my turn to watch them. I shall gladly accept any punishment you would give me for my negligence.” 

annwyfn replied to your post: Where are his fellow knights? Have they been…

you had one job and it was not to lose them :^(

Oh noooo he failed his one job, how sad. “I’m sorry, my king. They are sneaky.” He wasn’t totally napping in the corner or anything.