Conversation by the Bus Stop

Her face is both intimately familiar and that of a complete stranger. Blonde pigtails fall on each of her shoulders, almost shining like metal under the early rays of sunlight. Slowly, she exhales a long trail of smoke, rolling her cigarette in hand. "Good weather today, eh? That's rare, over here."

"Aren't you a little young to smoke?" Bedivere asks, sitting under the bus stop. Forty, fifty years ago, he wouldn't have batted an eye, but recently he's been hearing all kinds of awful things about the sideffects of cigarette...

The woman glares at him with disdain. "I'm older than you, you know."

He doubts that very much, because he doubts many people can boast to be older than him to begin with. Bedivere says nothing, though. He's not sure why. The woman looks physically young, but something about her hints of something more. Maybe it's something in her gestures, or in her eyes.

At his lack of response, her face softens. "Don't worry about me. I'm used to handling fire." She takes another drag off her cigarette, then exhales. "So? Where are you heading, traveller?"

Where, indeed? Bedivere wishes he knew. "France, perhaps. I'm looking for a friend, you understand."

"What an odd response. Do you not know where your friend resides?" The stranger quirks up an eyebrow. "Are you just scouring the entire world until you find her?"

Well. Yes. "I'm aware this is far from a good plan, but that is all I have right now."

"It's an incredibly stupid plan indeed." Her words are as sharp as her teeth. "What if she doesn't want to be found? What if you never find her?"

"I will." He has had centuries to look for him. He will surely have centuries more. It's a hopeless quest, a needle in a haysack- but given an infinite amount of time, something is bound to happen eventually, isn't it?

The look she gives him is hard to read. Disdain? Pity? Sadness? "What then?"

"I... don't understand the question?"

"When you'll find your friend. What then? Maybe she won't even recognize you, after so long."

Ah... yes. That is very likely. Bedivere doubts the king ever wants to see him again at all. "It doesn't matter. I have done something terrible to him. I must make ammends."

The woman takes another drag. Suddenly, it occurs to Bedivere that her cigarette is unlit. It only glows with embers when it touches her mouth. "This will not get you forgiveness. Not from her. Not from yourself."

"I don't care." He answers honestly. "This isn't about forgiveness at all. I don't want anything from him. I only want to right my-"

He doesn't see her get up. One moment, she's here, and the next, strong hands are grabbing his collar, pulling him up. Her fingers are cold as steel. "This will kill you. Don't you understand?! This will kill you. The moment you give me back is the moment you'll die. Let her doom herself if she so pleases! She didn't let you save her. She didn't let me save her. Just leave and live! You're still human!"

He can't see her face. He can only see the king's face, stretched over her features. She looks both too young and infinitely old, crushed by the weight of the years. Her gaze is looking straight into his soul. What a mangled mess he must be to her eyes.

He refuses to flinch. "I have to do this. I wronged him once. I have to fix this. Even if it kills me."

The woman who is not Arthur but was as much of the king as he was clicks her tongue. Her cigarette falls, hitting the pavement. "This will not grant you forgiveness. Not from her. Not from yourself. Not from me."

"I'm sorry." He says, even if she will not accept this apology. "I have to do this. I will make you witness one more death. I am sorry."

"...You are a fool." Excalibur replies, though she sounds more sad than angry. What horror it must be, to be a sword; witness of every demise, yet powerless to stop any of it.

He reaches up. He wants to touch her. To thank her, to apologize, to do anything.

He hears the honk of the bus horn. He turns by reflex, to look at it- and the hands at his collar vanish. When he turns back, no one is here. No one but him, and a sword by his hip who will no longer speak.

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