#arthur 01

It is no secret that she is not the only oddity in this place. There is some solace in that, though she figures that between the long ears and the insistence on wearing a skirt that forces others a good two feet away from her, that she takes at least a slice of the cake. Oddity is a part of life, after all, and when one considers both her age and the strange wisdom she carries of things ranging from fey to the undead, it’s only natural that she’d hold on to some of it.

Quite frankly, she takes pleasure in her strangeness. 

At the moment, however, she’s fiddling with the wooden sword she was given, still not content with its flimsy form. The weight, although lighter, contains a similar distribution of balance, and so, she finds use in it. 

Twisting the rudimentary weapon in her hand, Requiem finds the ease in moving, taking quick steps and shoving her hips a little more to move the stiff boning of her hoopskirt. It’s all well and fine, but it’s still wrong, and she hates the way it feels when she tries to do much of anything. So, the practice sword fighting ends soon enough, Requiem content to simply twirl it in her hands instead of doing anything particularly useful. 

Something else draws her attention soon enough, and she clears her throat in such a way to ask for the other’s acknowledgment. After all, her only experience with firearms is when they erupt into chaos not designed for a true gun.

“Excuse me, is uh- is this seat taken?” the pink-haired girl asked as she saw there was an empty seat at the table. Her heels were beginning to cause her feet to hurt a little and she just needed to sit down for a bit. The man didn’t particularly look like he wanted company but she had no intention of being a bother to him, and hopefully he could read that in her demeanor.

bedivere supposes he should feel cold. they were in the holy land for a while, after all, that scarred and barren wasteland. the sun was never bothersome, of course, not to the degree that it must have worn away at his companions, but the heat became familiar, and its absence is quite the shock. maybe the pain hasn’t been gone long enough--maybe his poor body still needs time to remember the damage fire and ice are bound to do.

even if he can’t feel it, he has enough sense to keep out of the snow. he’s not sure what worth airgetlám has here, but it’s not worth the risk of seeing if excalibur’s blessing will keep him safe from frostbite. he went out, earlier, to see what the village has to offer; that’s enough for one day, he’s decided, and has retreated to the safety of his bunk, bundled up in thick blankets more for comfort than for warmth.

but it’s the middle of the day, and he can’t pretend to sleep in peace for very long. the bunkhouse is a flurry of movement, new residents like himself moving in (he’d woken up bright and early so he could settle in as soon as possible) and old residents making room. for the most part, the bustle is comforting--until there’s a very unpleasant thud against the bunk below his that very nearly puts him in a huff.

“excuse me, sir, and apologies for interrupting your hard work, but--” the sleepy face peeking over the edge of the bunk stops, blinks once, twice, and barely holds back a gasp. “i--my liege?” the knight shuffles forward, desperate to make sense of what he’s seeing, and--

Staring at strangers isn’t a common practice of his. No, really, it’s the sort of thing that tends to lead to an altercation, so Liam avoids that behavior -- except this isn’t a stranger at all, is it? Liam’s head is practically on a tilt watching this man through the store window. A flower shop. And he’s holding a baby, no less, which draws a laugh from Liam and a simultaneous hand raking down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding.” This man had left an air of mystery and a bit of a bloodbath in his wake when they’d last crossed paths. Perhaps not the sort of closure he should be seeking, but Liam enters the shop all the same, raising a brow at the man behind the counter. At this point, it’s almost amusing. This man with babbling baby now in arms had certainly gotten one over on him. “Don’t think that was your name when you introduced yourself to me.” Liam nods towards the name tag on the other man’s chest by way of greeting, his expression as disbelieving as it is borderline entertained. “Not that you ever said much. Just got your work done and left in the middle of the night, didn’t you?” Not sure how much of a refresher this Arthur may need, Liam finally relinquishes the details of their last interaction. “I captained the Richmond. One of my men was found dead in his bed the same night you wandered off. Pretty mysterious, if I say so myself.” There’s no malice here, truly, and he indicates as much with the shrug of his shoulders. “Guy was a regular louse as it was. I could've done without that cleanup, though.”

you’d always assumed that if you saw him, you wouldn’t be able to recognise him. you’re not so familiar with your own face, after all; you know the shape of you from portraits and tapestries, from lovingly-rendered illustrations in illuminated manuscripts, but you are no narcissus, and the details are lost on you. maybe he would dress differently, or style his hair in some mundane way that would make your eyes skip over him; maybe he would look like something so different to yourself you could barely stand to look at him.

and maybe if you were anyone else that might be true, but where your gaze cannot find anything to hold your interest your heart takes the lead. you know it is him because of the resonance that fills you, the knell of a single great bell filling every hollow in you, and your heart sinks. isn’t he supposed to be a king? he looks domesticated, dressed like a civilian, a kind smile marking his features, and your own lip curls at the sight.

isn’t he supposed to be a king?

Albus’ note was the first Aberforth had heard about Caradoc Dearborn’s apparent disappearance. He did not, after all, frequent the Order Headquarters- he avoided it almost as fastidiously as he did the Ministry, actually- and those who knew about his involvement with the Order were few and far between. Rumors of an Order member not coming home weren’t the sort of things that found their way to his ears. Aberforth liked it that way. Keeping the Order at arm’s length was, he figured, the only reason he remained sane after being dragged into the messy little child’s army at Alastor’s behest. 

But Dearborn, well, Aberforth didn’t know the man beyond his occasional presence in the Hog’s Head, and a vague sort of idea of his relationship to various shady characters that lurked in the pub’s corners, but he hadn’t been as annoying as some of the other young ones running about throwing themselves into the line of fire. It was a shame the kid was probably dead by now. And if he wasn’t, probably better off were he dead. Aberforth didn’t envy the idea of spending over 24 hours in the company of a bunch of masked, curse-happy arseholes. 

Life, however, went on. The Hog’s Head was having a fairly slow evening, something Aberforth was not particularly put out about. He was more than happy to spend his time flipping idly through a copy of the Daily Prophet and nursing a pint behind the bar. And his patrons, what few there were that day, were keeping to themselves, hunched over grimy tables and glasses containing alcohol of all stripes. This was the pub as Aberforth liked it the most, quiet and peaceful and just a bit too dark. 

The door opened, creaking in protest the way it always did when moved at anything more than a snail’s pace, and Aberforth finished the line he was reading of an article about the Wizengamot’s latest decisions before letting his gaze slide up to the approaching wizard. He didn’t bother to bite back his sigh. 

Arthur Weasley was unmistakable. His hair was a frankly ridiculous shade of red, and Aberforth, who was not one to be concerned about his own not-inconsiderable height, found him irritatingly tall. In his experience, Arthur was both far too cheerful far too often, and, what’s more, was one of the idiots who thought Albus and his Order hung the moon. Aberforth stared over at the wizard, one eyebrow creeping upwards questioningly, and took a sip of his pint, not breaking eye contact. “Weasley,” the name was a begrudging greeting and an acknowledgement wrapped up into one, “Do you want a drink or are you just here to take in the scenery?” 

"Shouldn’t you kids be at school? Get outta here!” The waitress shooed the students out of the diner, with them coming up with bunches of excuses and lies to try to convince her to let them stay. “You morons are a couple years too late to be trying to fool me. And next time don’t wear your uniform if you’re gonna ditch!” Those kids were such a handful sometimes, but they meant well and never really wanted to cause trouble. It was just the senioritis getting to them. Without them though, the diner was depressingly empty.

“Sorry about that.” She took the liberty of refilling the man’s coffee cup, “Lotta kids around here thinking they can use this joint as their get-away, which I don’t mind, but only after school!” Granted she was the last person to be trying to lecture someone on school attendance, but it was her duty as an adult to set the right example.