28 and/or 7 aa Beditoria mayhaps
7. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you.
Ship: Beditoria
Tags: romance, tragedy
The moon wept often these days, hiding its grief behind countless clouds that did nothing to stop its tears from falling down. There was only one witness to the sky's misery tonight. She stood on stone, watching the heavens as cold droplets cascaded down her cheeks. Bedivere had never seen his king shed tears, but if the world ever let her cry, he believed she’d look as she did now: like a widow bent over a grave, in dire need of a warm embrace.
“I have come, my liege. You were looking for me?”Â
She was rigid in the way she turned to face him. It was a practiced motion, drilled into her head along with stiff upper lips and straight backs. Bedivere didn’t quite like it when she treated him this way; it made the mere inches between them feel like miles; made her feel unreachable though she was barely within his grasp. Arturia wasn't this cold when she started her conquest of Britain, but she grew ever distant since the throne tightened its clutches. Gone were the warm nights they'd laugh over meal and mead. He missed those precious times quite terribly.
"Bedivere, I require something of you."
“I shall deliver with most haste.”
His beloved king looked at him with wide eyes, the surprise on her countenance making her green irises look as vast as the seas. A short breath left her lips.Â
“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but I have not even told you what it is, my loyal knight.”
The one-armed warrior bowed, hand on his chest. He pretended her last three words would not haunt him in his sleep. Too often, his thoughts landed on her as he lay unto his cot, tossing and turning upon the furs. He worried much during those evenings. It had been so long since last he saw her smile or laugh. Most times, her eyes were as stormy as the tempest that raged above.Â
“It matters little what you require, only that you require it be done, my liege,” he answered, “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”
It was like time had stopped between them as their eyes clashed, the vibrant green of hers glistening amidst the torrential rain bearing down upon knight and king. He saw her breath hitch at her throat;Â watched as drops of water fell from her cheek down the skin of her neck to her collarbones. The slightest shiver shook her shoulders and his cape was upon them, warmed by the heat of his back and the burning fire of his love for her.
“Do you mean that, truly?” she asked in a whisper, letting her most loyal knight usher her inside and near the hearth. If they weren’t mere inches apart, he’d have missed it. It was a blessing then, that the storm brought them this close, enough that he could feel her breaths on his skin and smell the lilies in her hair. No sky but this dark and grey one would ever bear witness to the knight’s hand wiping the salt from his king’s cheek, or his lips voicing words he wished he had the right to say at the altar.
No, Bedivere agonized within himself, his one arm raised high above his head. He couldn't do it. He would not. Never. The weight of the holy sword bore down on its weeping wielder, as if sensing his unworthy hand at its hilt. Before him, the lake water seeped into his boots and washed the blood from his thighs. The ringing in his ears signaled death’s tempting beckon but louder still, was the weak voice of the king he so loved, begging him to do as she asked.
“Bedivere, take my sword. Listen closely, go through this forest and over that blood-soaked hill. Beyond, you will find a deep lake. Throw my sword into it.”
Her words cut deeper than swords of their enemies; hurt far more than the metal impaled into his body. How could she ask this of him? He would not do it. He could not. Bedivere would not be the end of her. He refused. All their enemies had fallen, there were none left to stand against her. This could not be where their story ended–he wouldn’t let it be.Â
“Do not betray me with lies, my most loyal knight.” her voice said, staking him to the pyre with every word, but she could abuse him all she wanted. He did not care, he’d rather burn in hellfire, have the world curse his name than accept her fate. King Arthur would not fall today, nor ever, even if it meant he’d spend his life rebuilding Camelot brick by bloody brick. He would never let go of this sword even if it killed him.
“If you meant your words, Bedivere, then do this for me…please.”
Shame colored his cheeks red. He’d promised that so many years ago he couldn’t believe she remembered, and now those damn words haunted him like the ghosts of their allies.Â
“Why?!” the knight screamed into the darkening sky, the words of the person he loved most breaking his very spirit in half. Knuckles turned white as his fingers crushed the hilt in his fist. Loyalty demanded he cast Excalibur far into the depths, but love demanded he didn’t with equal, damning force. Never in his life did he ever have to choose. Now, the one person he cared about was at death’s door and he was the only one refusing to let her enter it.Â
Hot tears streamed down his face as he took a step back, then forward, his hand still hovering unsteadily above his head, Excalibur in its grasp. This wouldn’t have happened if he were strong enough. If he were just as strong as Lancelot, then Mordred would never have–this would never have– Â
The knight fell to his knees. If this lake did not drown him, then his tears would. Nothing could ever soothe the pain that gripped his heart at the realization of his lack. He was weak, so terribly weak. Far less capable than anyone else on the damn Round Table. Every single day that passed, he felt more unworthy of his title. The only thing that kept him by her side was…loyalty.
A guttural cry escaped his lips, the sorrow in his voice making the sky weep at last. Camelot’s final knight drew the holy sword back, standing with quivering knees and a bloodied chest. A final tear left his lashes and he cast the blade forward with all the strength he had left, breaking his heart in the process. Before it touched the water, a hand shot up from the depths, brandishing the sword once then dragging it beneath the surface together with any hope for King Arthur’s life.Â
Empty, the knight returned to his dying king, heart bleeding with every step he took. He watched her drift off to a deep sleep, one from which she would never wake. As he gathered her in his arms, his own life slipping away, her last words of thanks echoed in his mind.Â
“Rejoice, Bedivere, for you have done your king’s final task.”
Truthfully, he admitted, his tears falling to her cheek as he hugged his beloved king closer, he wished he could have done more.
thank you for the ask. :)
