[Open post] ..life's a hall of mirrors..

[lanselos_du_lac]

It's been an exhausting few days. While the zombie siege was dangerous, Lancelot is proud of how they handled things, together -- even though not everyone is friends. He was also, he must admit, grateful for the diversion. There is too much on his mind, after the truth-telling spell, and most of it sits like a stone in him... making his sleep even worse, weighing on his heart.

Still, all of that is strangely intermixed with hope. He has a few new friendships that feel like how he remembers friendship feeling -- pleasure in each other's company, time well spent, connection. There's a little piece of him that feels as if he gave that up with youth. (He was always glad to be in Arthur's company, or Guinevere's, he misses them in a way that's sometimes physically painful now that they're away from him. But all of that feels shored up by duty, devotion, love -- nothing simple.) He is glad he could speak plainly with Galahad, glad for all of these new possibilities. Glad of Susan, Laertes, Grantaire -- even Sagramore, whom only months ago he would have given little notice.

So he's reverted to keeping to himself, a little, while he thinks things through. He keeps his schedule: sleep (or not sleeping), drills in the morning, finding something to eat after that, wandering the mansion or the grounds. He's not as adrift as he was, and he is sober most of the time now, but it's an adjustment.

This afternoon he's determined that it's been too long since he took proper care of his sword. He's found a bench and has set himself up there to clean, hone, and oil the blade.

Comments

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan, meanwhile, has been making a concerted effort to find small things to do, since tasks were... helpful, during the attack. It occurs to her that she's spent even less time outside than normal, since arriving, as she's no longer walking to work or the bars or classes every day.

She slips a book of Freud's writings (Not the essays on homosexuality; those are still burning a hole under her pillow) in her pocket and goes outside to find a place to read, and that's where she finds Lancelot.

"Have you eaten today, sir?" she asks, remembering their last conversation as she approaches.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He looks up at her voice, and his whole expression lights. He answers easily, "Some while ago, very early, lady."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"But that's hours ago!" Susan crosses her arms, mock-stern as she steps closer still. She is glad to see Lancelot, and takes a moment to marvel inwardly at that gladness.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot laughs a little at her sternness, "Aye, that's so. I could be made to eat another meal."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"You look busy," she says, sitting down at the edge of the bench, next to him, and peering over him at the sword.

[stayafloat]

Annie has crept out of the house for -- perhaps the first time since the zombie attack the other day. Normally, she would be in her small tent near the lake and the boat Laertes had built for her, but it is getting too cold, and then the sudden appearance of these -- creatures that looked like something the Capitol might send had made her retreat to the house. (Granted, she could have taken care of herself if she needed to, but she knows well enough what that would lead to.)

'Crept' is the correct word indeed, because she is hoping against hope no one will see her. She is not feeling entirely fit for conversation, either, too fragile and anxious at the moment, and she needs something to settle her mind and ground her. So she finds a spot probably somewhat near Lancelot's, settling in to tie knots in the net she's been working on making. (She has not, as of yet, realized that there is someone else nearby.)

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot is fairly absorbed in his own task, checking the edges of the blade for any bad knicks after the very real work of the battle. After a time, though, he registers that Annie is there -- that she has a net, that he doesn't know her, that she seems set on her own task. He waits a while before saying, carefully, "Hail, lady. That is fine work you are doing."

[stayafloat]

She is indeed, set on her own task. So much so that it takes a moment before his words actually register. "Oh, um. Hi," she says quietly, looking askance at him, a little like a frightened deer. The sword might have something to do with it, really, but if she notices the slightest hint of more zombies she is planning to bolt immediately.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He starts to wipe down the blade with a clean rag, using slow and careful strokes. He's quiet for a little space and when he's almost finished he says, "I don't think we've met. I am Lancelot."

[onthewillowsthere]

It's been a good day so far. It took Galahad less time to get out of bed this morning than it sometimes does, and he made up that extra time because Matins and Prime by reading Horology: An Illustrated Primer on the History, Philosophy, and Science of Time¹. He ate.

Now, in his continuing pursuit of new, small purposes, he's out walking with his sketchbook again, looking for some of the herbs Mothwing showed him, so he can draw pictures for her. He sits down by a patch of feverfew not far from where Lancelot's bench is located -- the flowers have died back, but he recognizes the leaves, and begins to sketch.

¹which he left on his side of the bed when he went downstairs, not because he intended for Claudius to see it but because his typist did.

[lanselos_du_lac]

It takes him a little time to look up and see Galahad nearby, but once he spots him he pauses to consider how to proceed. Ultimately, he keeps at his task but calls quietly to Galahad, "Sir, good afternoon. Art-- are you well?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He glances over. "Yes. Are you?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Well enough, aye. It is good to have a task."

[sorrowandsorrow]

Oh, great, another man with a sword. How original.

Janet recognizes him a little after the zombie invasion situation. There were a lot of people out there mowing down zombies, including this guy. She's irritable because she can't send a message to Fillory, still amped up on the dregs of adrenaline. So she pauses and gives him a flat, assessing look from head to toe. "Hi."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He looks up, then straightens in an effort to be polite. "Hello."

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet narrows her eyes at him. "Not in robes, so I'm going to say not a cultivator. Let me guess. Another knight?" Ugh.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Yes," with a polite smile. "Sir Lancelot du Lac, lady."

[aflashbastard]

Crowley's in a relatively good mood (for him) following his chat with Aziraphale and he's sauntering vaguely around the grounds with his daily six shots of espresso, which he's starting to think isn't quite strong enough for this place (or for him).

"Zombies didn't get to you?" He asks Lancelot without preamble, giving him a little nod.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot looks up and smiles a little at Crowley. "Hello-- no, they did. Rather bad wound to the leg," he gestures at his thigh, as if there was anything to see. "I am grateful that Magnus healed me."

[aflashbastard]

"Talented," Crowley says, mildly impressed. "At least these zombies weren't the ones that turned you if they got to you."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Turned you?"

[timebethine]

Laertes isn't seeking Lancelot out--he's taken it into his head to further explore the woods, to see if there are other landmarks like the fountain that may bear further watching. But it's only sensible to take a sword when one fears one might meet with danger, and so it is that he's girded about with his rapier when he sees Lancelot seated on the bench.

"Sir," he says, drawing up short a few paces away. His face is drawn with banked anger. "You've done injury to a man I would call friend. Explain yourself, or draw."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot looks up, and there's a brief second before he reads Laertes' expression and processes his words in which he is clearly happy to see him. Then the rest hits home and he blinks. "I have? To whom?"

[timebethine]

"Galahad," says Laertes. "Explain yourself--and if I try him, and find you've spoken falsely, I swear you will have made a mortal enemy of me."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot sets his own blade aside and sighs, putting his head in his hands for a moment. He has yet to do a decent job explaining this, and he knows it; that he has tried to set it right with Galahad, apologized, that he and Galahad have come to an understanding seems to mean nothing to anyone but the two of them.

When he sits up again he looks a little defeated, prepared in advance to lose Laertes' friendship. He keeps his gaze down. "When I arrived here, Galahad was the first person I saw. I did not know him, though he knew me. When I left court he could not yet have been born. He spoke to me-- he knew my baptismal name, and said it was his own. He called himself my son. I could not believe this. I had no reason to believe this to be true. He--" Lancelot pauses; he still doesn't want to speak of this, but it's not as if there's no one else who knows, including Sagramore. When he begins again he says carefully, "He spoke to me of his mother. He knew things that... I thought none but myself and those closest to me knew. It pained me. I knew not whether he was a trial, a test-- I had been out questing and woke and wandered here. Stranger things have happened. I denied him. I declared that what he said was not so. Could not be so. When he insisted, I-- I lost my temper. It happens to me, sometimes, that everything goes and I've nothing but rage and action. I struck him."