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

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.

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

"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.

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

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

"I could be done very soon, though this is-- what's the word? Relaxing." He glances over at her briefly, the smile fixed in place, and then back to the blade.

"What is it with men and polishing their swords?" Susan asks, raising an eyebrow at Lancelot and shaking her head, practically playfully.

Lancelot laughs quietly, "Well, lady, we did have a battle. Must needs be certain I am ready for the next."

"Surely there won't be another anytime soon," Susan says, with more hope than certainty; she's a little more subdued at the reminder.

"Aye, I pray so, too," wiping the last of the oil from the blade. "But I would rather be ready."

He sheathes the sword and looks up at her, fully present now. "I am glad to see thee."

"And I, you," Susan says. "You look like you're doing well." It's phrased as a statement, but there's a question underneath it: he's been poorly, lately, and as he pointed out, there was that battle.

"I am--" He pauses, actually thinking about it for a moment. "I am better today. Activity served me well, and I ended it unharmed. Things are still difficult but today I am glad."

"I am glad to hear it," says Susan. "I, too, found refuge in clear tasks to complete."

Lancelot shifts to face her, still with that glad, warm expression, "And now, here we are. A lovely day."

"It is, isn't it," Susan says, glancing out over the lawn. She feels warmed by his attention, in a queer way that doesn't bear looking at directly. "The weather here is often fair. I don't know about your experiences in England of old, but it's often dreary in my London."

"It rains more frequently at Camelot than many would like to discuss," in as joking a tone as he ever gets. "We do get some splendid days-- this one is warmer, I think, even if it is autumn." He looks at her, trying not to say again how glad he is to see her.

"It is queer, to go from mid-spring to mid-autumn with no summer in-between," Susan observes. She looks over at him, sideways, head tilted back so she can take him in. Always winter, never Christmas, she thinks. She is practicing remembering Narnia now, remembering what Lancelot had said about understanding things in pieces. "When I was a child, we went from a dreary summer day to the dead of winter when we first passed into Narnia." A wry twist to her lips. "But when I was a child, it seemed a grander adventure. I do like autumn, at least."

"Autumn is usually pleasant, aye. Today feels like false summer, to me." He looks her over, noting the book. "Did you come seeking somewhere to read?"

"I came seeking some time outside," Susan admits. "The book seemed a good excuse." She holds it up; it's a translation of Freud's Civilization and Its Discontents. "I thought to try and understand the vagaries of my own memory, but this seemed more interesting."

Lightly, a little carefully, he says, "More interesting than thyself? Surely not."

Susan casts her eyes downward, a flush staining her cheeks. "You flatter me," she says, secretly quite pleased. "I simply meant that this book is by the man I told you of when we met, who spoke of the unconscious and its defense mechanisms. But this book is less focused on the unconscious, and more on the tension between the self and society."

He smiles at her, pleased at the flush, "I remember thy lesson on Freud. I've been thinking on it."

"Have you! I am pleased to hear it," Susan says. "I don't believe I could ever be a psychoanalyst myself, but I find the subject fascinating. As well you know."

"Aye, so I do. It is useful to think on, I find," quietly. "Makes little easier, but helps in some ways."

"I like to have knots to untangle," Susan admits. "Whether they be within my self or within the world around me. I like how once the threads are straightened, the logic beneath them is clear." Another wry twist of her lips. "I did not expect to discover the particular knots that I have this week, but I have considered your counsel. Focusing on a fragment at a time is... good." She doesn't want to get bogged down by this today, though; it's been a good day so far, so she looks out across the sun on the grass and adds, "I say. Do you fancy a picnic?"

He smiles at hearing he's been helpful to her.

"A picnic sounds very pleasant."

"I could fetch some sandwiches while you finish... polishing your sword," Susan offers, raising her eyebrows in a way that frames her statement as more of a question than anything.

He chuckles, "Very well. I'm nearly finished. I shall put it away in my room and then come to find you."

So Susan stands, slipping her book back in her pocket and squeezing Lancelot's shoulder once before heading into the kitchen. There she finds a basket, and packs it full of a canteen of tea, several hearty sandwiches, and a packet of biscuits. She throws in a couple apples for good measure, and tops it all with a blanket and eating implements; then she goes to wait for Lancelot by the door.

He joins her shortly after, looking bright and optimistic.

Susan looks at him for a moment, expression soft and open. It's not a smile, but the sentiment is there. Then she slip a hand around his arm. "I'm afraid I don't know the best picnic spots around here," she says, aiming for a conspiratorial tone and landing within the correct ballpark, for once. "Any ideas?"

Lancelot feels warmed all over by her hand on his arm. He says, "I admit, I have not explored much, but it seems we can either go toward the lake's edge or more toward the woods. I am happy with whatever pleases you, lady."

"Perhaps a place in-between, so that we may admire both?" Susan suggests.

"Aye, very well-- let's stroll to find a place to your liking."

She sets off then, setting a meandering sort of pace for the two of them. "You said you were doing well to-day," she says. "How are you settling in, here?"

"I'm not certain I am settling in, but today I feel good," easily. "It was good to be useful. I have been trying to stay active. I admit, though, it is best when I have someone such as yourself to talk to."

"You flatterer," Susan says, glancing up at his face and then back to the yard in front of them. "What's more difficult, for you? Being here, or not being there?"

"I'm not flattering, I tell thee truth," in a bantering tone that does nothing to remove the sincerity of what he says. "I suppose just now it is harder to be away, though I'd rather keep sight of here."

"You miss - your people."

He gives a tiny shrug, "I do, though I suppose it's more that I feel I'm shirking my duty by staying away."

Susan has a dim memory of Lancelot telling her he had been questing after falling out with the Queen. "That is difficult," she agrees. "I imagine it doesn't help that you did not come here purposefully?"

"That is true," tentatively, "still, I chose to leave court. It still feels as if it is my fault."

A beat, then he places his other hand over hers on his arm. He lightens his tone, "Even so. You asked me along to enjoy the day. I'll not burden you further."

"Like I said." Susan glances up at Lancelot again. She knows better than to try to smile reassuringly, but she does keep her face carefully soft. "I like having knots to untangle."

"I suppose I have been trying to untangle things on my own," he admits.

"Then I will give you the space to do so," Susan says. "So long as you know that it's no burden to me, if you wish to discuss anything." She spots a likely picnic spot, then, and gives a (deliberate) cry of delight, gesturing to it with her free hand.

Lancelot laughs and steers her that way, offering to take the basket so he can spread out the blanket.

Susan agrees, passing everything over to Lancelot. There's a lovely breeze out this afternoon -- not too chilly, not too lively -- and after a moment of fierce indecision, gives in to whim. She unpins her hair and lets the braid wound around her head fall heavy down her back. It's easier to feel the wind through her hair when it's not so carefully trapped in place.

He gets the blanket spread, setting the basket in the center, and as he's neatening the edges he looks up at her and smiles, watching her with a soft expression for a moment. "Here we are," he says, gesturing at the blanket, offering his hand.

Susan takes it, allowing Lancelot to help her sit. "Do you want to hear something funny?" she asks, as she starts unpacking the rest of the basket.

"Yes," with certainty, as he settles across from her.

"You know how I knew who you were before we met," Susan says, passing Lancelot a sandwich. In a businesslike tone, she reveals: "Thomas told me that he read of me and my siblings and our time in Narnia before I arrived here, too. In a book for children."

He takes the sandwich, listening intently; then, his eyebrows go up. "He-- is that so? Is it true?"

"He knew enough that I believe it," Susan says. A strand of her hair came loose when she let her braid down; she tucks it behind her ear. "It's a queer feeling, to be sure. You, and others, are from stories I grew up hearing. To learn that I might have the same dubious honor..." She lifts an eyebrow at Lancelot. "I see now that it's even more strange to reconcile than I had imagined."

He sits back, regarding her with thoughtful concern. "Are you all right? I mean-- are you well enough after...?"

"I believe it helped me to hear it," Susan says. "Ultimately. These books had information I did not. It wasn't pleasant information, in many ways; in others, it was a reassurance." She takes a moment to busily unwrap a sandwich of her own, and hides whatever expression might be crossing her face with a bite. Once she has swallowed, she tilts her head back, letting the sun rest on her face. "Forgive me for being so circumspect. I haven't decided what to do with that information yet, so I'm holding it close until I do."

"There is no need for you to tell me anything, unless you wish to." He has been looking earnestly at her this whole while, and now he feels a little self-conscious. He sits back and starts in on his own sandwich. There is a little space of companionable silence before he says, "I said I had been trying to untangle things on my own. It seems I'm not terribly good at that."

"No?" Susan asks. She doesn't pry further; she doesn't want to push him, but she does watch him quietly for a moment.

"No," with a slightly sheepish, but grateful little smile. "Are you surprised to hear that I have found something I don't excel at?"

"Sir, I have decided to enter into this friendship having abandoned all preconceived notions I may once have held," Susan tells him. There's a playful light in her eye now. "I am surprised by everything and nothing."

He grins at her, charmed even beyond his urge to share his thoughts with her, and takes another bite of his sandwich. "That's well," he says eventually, "I trust you. You are wise. You likely have insight I don't."

Even though she wants to, Susan doesn't accuse Lancelot of flattery yet again. Instead she sets her sandwich down and steeples her fingers, regarding Lancelot. "I am wise," she agrees, instead. "And happy to offer any insights you may request."

Lancelot's smile holds, "You needn't stop eating. I was only going to ramble on. Tediously."

"I'll be the judge of that," Susan says, archly, but she picks up her sandwich again and takes an appeasing bite.

He says, glancing away, "Well. Most of this is not new to me, but rather I've thought of things differently. I believe I told you, I fell out with the Queen and after some while I sought to leave court." Lancelot barely gives her time to acknowledge this, because he trusts she recalls. "During the... truth-telling days, I learned much. I said more than I would have liked to. But I keep thinking--"

"Yes?" Susan asks. She pours him a cup of tea from the canteen in the basket, and passes it over before pouring a second for herself.

He takes it, sips, and is grateful for it. He takes some while to go on, but when he does, he says, "I keep thinking how unhappy I was. How I told the Queen what had happened, and how we argued. She sent me away-- and after some weeks, perhaps longer, I found a way to be gone."

He looks thoughtful, a little sad. He sips his tea, his sandwich in the other hand. "What if what is here is meant to be new? I left behind something like a ruin. What if I'm to start anew now?"

"I wonder that, too," Susan says. "There was little for me in London when I arrived here. Oh, I had my friends, and I had my life, and I liked both very much." Miriam, she thinks, suddenly; things had been so unresolved between them for months. She would have liked to at least say good-bye. "But I don't know if I ever would have remembered Narnia if I hadn't come here, and I don't know if I could have begun to start crawling out of the hole of grief I'd been caught inside without remembering." She is still a miserable woman, most days, but it feels more manageable, having been confronted with the knowledge of her own deepest denial. "I think perhaps the key to moving forward is to embrace the memory of what passed, so that you may set it aside on with purpose."

He nods, seeming a little far-away. "Yes, perhaps. And to decide not to stay inside that pain, though I admit that is my tendency."

Lancelot refocuses, looking her over, smiling a little. "You have been a great help to me. I am always so glad to see you."

Edited 2023-11-26 15:52 (UTC)

Susan shakes her head, but it is not to negate anything he's said - it's more rueful, and self-focused. "I share the same tendency," she says, and meets his gaze head-on. A tiniest of instinctual smiles is tugging at her lips, now, trying very hard indeed to bloom into something bigger. "And the same feeling. I'm very glad to know you, Lancelot."

His own smile broadens, and he flushes a little as he says, "I should like, very much, to be closer with you."

He sounds faintly uncertain, but it's more down to nerves than anything else.

It must be said that it takes Susan a moment to realize what Lancelot is hinting at. After all, she had propositioned him and gotten politely rejected the night they met. A boon, she has privately thought: she is not ashamed to use men as an anesthetic, or to have a robust sexual life, but if she had bedded Lancelot that night, she may have written him off entirely and not come to understand him as the friend he has come to be.

She has been trying not to notice how handsome he is, since, out of respect for his rejection. But taking in the flush on his cheeks and the tremor in his words, she puts that smaller denial aside and takes him in in full. He really is beautiful, but what's more, he's nice to talk to, and he makes her feel good. Like there's someone else who understands what it means to be lost; like this other lost soul is willing to sit and listen and hear her even so. Like she is still interesting, even though she knows for a fact she hasn't been able to be interesting in nearly six long months.

Her smile does blossom. Not into her easy flirtatious one, but into the small and ugly but fierce, genuine one. "You may," she says.

The reaction that flashes across his face is, initially, something like surprise; then the flush deepens and he glances away for a moment, though he's smiling.

After a breath he looks back at her, feeling overbold, and says, "If I continue in honesty, I'm bound to say that I should like to kiss you."

"Then in the interest of honesty, I should say that I would be very disappointed if you did not."

Lancelot laughs softly, delighted, and sets aside his cup. He moves a little closer -- he had settled at a very respectful distance, so he has to shift up onto his knees -- and reaches for her hand, leaning in to kiss her sweetly.

Susan slips her hand more firmly into Lancelot's. She lets him set the pace of the kiss, letting her eyes drift closed as she responds just as sweetly. It's different, but a good sort of different. She likes him; she can experiment with trying not to show off or put him in his place at first blush.

It's sweet, though at first very tentative -- as if he expects she'll change her mind, or perhaps that something worse will happen. (A bolt of lightning? Some other form of smiting?)

But when nothing comes but the pleasure of her nearness, the sensation of her skin, he lets the kiss deepen, drawing it out.

Susan brings her other hand up to his cheek, resting it there for a moment before moving it to the back of his head. He's looming, a little; she finds she likes it. Still, she presses up into the kiss, lifting on her own knees, responding eagerly, opening to him.

He lets his trepidation go, lets himself feel the warmth rising in him -- the sun on them, the light breeze, Susan's hand at the back of his neck. He slides his other arm around her waist, pulling her in, easing back a little so as to make her more comfortable, and deepens the kiss.

Susan goes easily. She's debating taking control of the kiss, setting the pace, playing it up. Showing off, a little; she's kissed countless people, and she's very good at it. It's been a while, though, since she kissed someone she genuinely likes, as a person and as a friend. She tells herself not to rush, not to get ahead of herself, not to forget who it is she's kissing. She rubs her thumb gently along Lancelot's hairline, and her other against the back of his hand.

Lancelot gently breaks the kiss, but doesn't draw away. Despite the fact that it's clear Susan is doing just fine, he murmurs, "Is it well with the?"

Susan's eyelashes flutter as she opens her eyes. "Very," she says, fingers flexing against Lancelot's neck again, lightly. "And you?"

"Very," warmly. He shifts to sit, and entice her into his lap, doing his best to keep her close. "It's been some while. Forgive me if I'm over-careful."

"Forgiven," Susan says, immediately, climbing into his lap and making herself comfortable. She shifts her grip, moving her arm further around his head, fingers brushing against his shoulder, and presses her forehead against his. "You can be as careful as you like. I won't mind."

He laughs, settling both arms around her waist, and then kissing her more boldly this time, with an edge of heat.

Susan feels warm all over, down to her very toes. This is rare, for her; winter has set in at the heart of her and taken root. But between Lancelot's touch, and the sun, and the steady movement of his mouth, she feels a thawing. She presses her front against him, her chest flush against his, and lets herself be kissed.

Lancelot lets a hand slide up her back, pressing her closer, and a little more of his hesitation falls away. It's so good to have her close, so good to be touched; he lets the kiss draw out, warm and exploratory, reveling in the feel of her, of how much he likes her... of wanting her.

Lancelot's hand on her back unlocks something inside Susan. Even though she told him he could be careful as he wants, even though she's been trying to follow his lead, she becomes aware of the hunger growing inside her. She deepens the kiss, taking over some control of it, sharing that hunger with Lancelot so that he might know she feels it.

He lets his other hand come up to brush her cheek, making a soft sound, and yields to her; he feels it, too, an aching in his chest, a heat in the pit of his stomach. Lancelot presses her closer.

Susan shivers at Lancelot's touch on her cheek. It feels like it's been forever since someone touched her like this, even though realistically it has only been a few short weeks. Longer than she's used to, but then she's been distracted lately and eligible men seem to be in shorter supply here.

She kisses him fiercely, then breaks away, gasping, long enough to say, "It hasn't been very long, for me; you'll have to tell me if you don't want-"

Lancelot leans back a little, to better meet her gaze; he lets his touch wander to tuck back a strand of her hair. He's flushed, his gaze dark, and while he doesn't meant to hesitate he wants to be sure he understands her. He says softly, "Go on. If I don't want what? Or rather-- what dost thou want?"

"Anything in particular," Susan decides. She's blushing; she can definitely feel herself blushing. She leans in and kisses him again, a short, playful thing; tone also playful, she scolds him, "You've made me abandon my grammar."

He laughs, "I'm afraid I am not sorry for that."

There is a little pause as he brushes his fingertips across her cheek; there's a struggle within him about how much to say. After a moment, he decides. "There are things I would tell thee, things I would have thee know first, if we were to decide to lie with one another. But-- they are mostly unhappy. I am so glad to be with thee, to have thee here like this, and thou'rt beautiful as the day is, and I don't wish to spoil it. Only to enjoy thee. For today, perhaps, we keep close. Thou canst show me how best to kiss thee. Then we can sort the rest as we go." He takes a breath, then adds, "I have made so many mistakes. I wish to make none with thee, an I can help it."

Edited (dang informal pronouns) 2023-11-27 22:24 (UTC)

Susan's eyelashes flutter again at his touch. For all that she has railed against gentleness in front of Lancelot multiple times now, she finds that she likes how gentle he is very much. It is a queer feeling, to realize this: she thought herself insensate to softness any more.

But just kissing! This, too, is something she must grapple with. She hasn't left off at just kissing anyone since she was young¹ and inexperienced - save, perhaps, an idling afternoon with Miriam the day after one of their private assignations, perhaps last summer. She's a goal-oriented woman, and while the end-point of that goal has evolved from feeling good to feeling anything over the past few months, the outcome has largely remained consistent for some years now.

She likes Lancelot, though. It surprises her, a little, the ways in which she likes Lancelot. Despite her ability to get along easily with them, she doesn't often make genuine friends with men. Certainly she rarely opens up to them, honest and full-throated. And she suspects she might even like him in the other way, too. She's sincerely interested in seeing where this could go, and she knows enough of his story (partly from him; partly from his legend) that she can guess what sort of things he might want to tell her about.

She finds that, to her surprise, she rather fiercely does not want to be one of his mistakes. This must mean, then, that he cannot be one of her stopgaps.

Susan considers how she can phrase her thoughts, flirtatiously and lightly enough that it makes him laugh and kiss her again. She decides, at the last minute, to go for honesty instead.

"I think that is good. I - there are things I should probably tell you first, too." She drags her gaze up to meet his head-on; flushing, she clarifies, "I have been called oversexed, in the past, and rightfully so. That is not the only thing, or the whole picture, and I am not ashamed of it, but it lies at the heart of much I would say. Kissing alone, today, is... smart. It's good. I would like that very much."

¹Thus sayeth the twenty-two year old.

Edited 2023-11-27 23:44 (UTC)

Lancelot listens intently, thoughtfully, holding her gaze, his expression soft. But at the last, his smile lights again -- like he's been given a gift he didn't expect.

His arm tightens around her waist; his fingers trace along her jaw. He says, "That's well, then. And we can speak of the rest soon enough." Then he pulls her in for another kiss, sweet and suffused with gratitude, joy.

Susan responds in kind. It's good, to have some sense of direction. To know that Lancelot only wants this, for now, is freeing: she lets go of thoughts of impressing him with her skill, or guiding this in a direction she'll prefer, and instead focuses on the feeling of his hands on her, and his mouth against her own, and the feeling of his hair brushing her arm. The sun is warm at her back; Lancelot is warm at her front. Aided by the brightness of his smile, the chill of her permafrost recedes a few more inches.

He lets his hands move -- over her hair, down her neck, his other hand sliding up between her shoulder blades. Lancelot is learning the shape of her, attentive to her reactions, but also just enjoying her, savoring the feel of her. His kiss is languid, now, deep and still sweet; he had nearly forgotten that this kind of pleasure, this kind of connection, was possible.

This is meditative, in a way. Lancelot's hands light a fire across Susan's skin as he runs them over her body, and Susan finds herself enjoying letting that fire simmer, but not build. She's kissing him eagerly now, matching his easy pace, but with an enthusiasm for the taste of him. Now that she's less preoccupied with what she's doing, she can acknowledge he also has skill at this, and she's glad she's sitting in his lap instead of standing, weak-kneed, clutching at his (lovely) shoulders.

She feels them now, his shoulders, firm under her hands. She lets one hand drift down his back, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, and the sturdiness below that.

"Thou'rt lovely," he murmurs, in a break for breath. He cups her face in his hands, his gaze full.

"And you're sweet," Susan says, pertly, blinking up at him. And then: "And so very handsome, my God. Look at you."

He laughs, delighted, "Dost think so?"

"I do," Susan says. She moves her hand on his back to his chin, pinching it lightly, using it to pull him in to a playful kiss. "You are a striking man, Sir."

Lancelot kisses her happily, still laughing a little, "I am glad to be found so striking, if that has earned me thy affections." He resettles his arms around her waist, "Art still comfortable?"

"Ah," Susan says. "No. I mean, yes, I'm very comfortable. But I have been very good about not noticing your looks since we decided to be friends. I'm just now letting myself catch up, you see."

"Oh?" He grins at her, "I see. Making an effort not to notice. Well, take all the time thou dost need. I am a patient man."

"That's nice." The small, genuine smile is back. "I am a fast woman, and a quick study. I've caught up." She kisses him. "I only mean that you earned my affection with your other attributes."

Edited 2023-11-28 04:28 (UTC)

"I am glad to hear it," reaching up again to touch her face, letting his thumb brush along that smile. "I am glad of thee."

There are many things Susan wants to say to that: that she's glad of him; that he flatters her; that his skill with his tongue is clearly equal to his skill with his sword; that she knows she's a gift. Each has a different tone, a different implication, and lends itself to a different response, and she's not certain which she wants to go for.

Rather than decide, she turns her face into his touch, letting it drag across her mouth, and kisses the heel of his thumb.

Lancelot makes a small, appreciative sound, his face heating again, and bends to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw.

Susan lets herself be kissed, craning up into Lancelot's touch, eyes drifting shut again. She likes the feeling, as usual; more to the point, she likes the feeling of him, specifically. He's so warm, and she shivers with it, fingers clutching at his back.

He continues with the light touches, indulgently, kissing the spot just under her jaw. It's likely clear that he's just as focused on pleasing her, attentive to her reactions, as he is taking his own pleasure in enjoying her -- the feel of her, her scent.

It's been so long since he had this kind of closeness, this much touch, this much pleasure and the luxury of it feeling so uncomplicated, that he's starting to feel a little drunk with it. He lets the warmth of it, the happiness, seep through him. (He does want her; he hadn't been quite sure until today. It made him nervous to think of wanting her, but at this moment he feels none of that. Still, he's glad for the chance to take his time.)

Susan is, as ever, preternaturally quiet outside of the tiny, natural sounds her body makes: the soft, slick noise of her parting her lips, the puff of air that comes with a heavier exhale, the rustling of her dress as she presses closer to Lancelot. It's a learned quiet that she's never bothered to unlearn. Her movements, however, are a studied contrast: She's trying so hard not to shift against him, to make this more than what they agreed, so she's satisfying herself -- while reinforcing a careful, minuscule distance -- by running her hands up and down his arms, his back, his shoulders. At first she presses her jaw to his mouth, relishing in the feeling of his lips; then, she grows impatient and twists her head, capturing his mouth in a fiercer kiss.

Lancelot gasps at this but returns the kiss with equal fierceness, one arm tightening around her waist -- his other hand rests lightly at the back of her neck, and he shifts against her.

Susan gets caught up in Lancelot, in the feeling of his body and the intensity of his kiss, for a few long moments. She forgets, briefly, what they've agreed to, and starts tugging at his top -- only to come back to herself a moment later and pull away with a small, rueful smile. "You make it very easy to get carried away," she tells him; it's not an apology.

Edited 2023-11-29 00:23 (UTC)

"Aye," he says, sounding a little dazed. It's not meant as a boast. He takes a breath. "Susan," he says, still unsure at how informal, how familiar it sounds. He worries for a moment, against even his own judgment, that he's over stepping.

Another breath. "I would like--" He glances away for a moment, then back. "I would like for us to have dinner. Tonight, or any other night. So that we may speak, and understand one another."

He stops himself before he says and determine how to proceed, because it sounds too formal, even to him, and he's suddenly sharply self-conscious.

"Yes," Susan says, and there's that tiny, genuine smile again, shining out. She moves her hands to his shoulders, creating a slight and necessary distance between their torsos, then brushes his cheek with the backs of her fingers and strokes that hand on through his hair, smoothing it back. "I would like that very much. Tonight, or any other night."

He smiles a little, though he's clearly still a little nervous. "Tonight, then."

"Tonight," Susan agrees, and indulges herself by leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. She thinks about sliding off of his lap and finishing the picnic, but she's loathe to move, so she hesitates.

Lancelot reaches up to draw her close, and kiss her sweetly again, as if for good measure. After a lingering moment, he murmurs, "Shall I come to thee, then?"

Susan hasn't had a gentleman come fetch her, or to her, in well over a year, and the thought charms her. "Please do," she says, kissing him once more.

And then, with the greatest reluctance, she slips free of his grasp and moves to sit next to him. "I'm going to get carried away again if I'm not careful," she explains, mock-reproachfully, already missing his warmth.

"Thou'rt wise," his tone is faintly teasing. He does reach for her hand, as if missing the contact. "And beautiful."

Susan takes his hand in hers, and leans against him, and starts to crane her head up for another kiss before she catches herself. She's feeling less indecisive now, so she says, "I am," with a wicked gleam in her eye. Rather than reiterating that he flatters her once again, decides on a double entendre, to see how he reacts. "And you've got a nimble tongue."

He chuckles a little, flushing again, "Ah, perhaps, my lady, but not for speaking."

Blithely, summoning up her easy, flirtatious smile - but this time it's a little softer, a little more genuine - she says, "Then I look forward to becoming better-acquainted with it."

"I am eager to show thee," with the faintest teasing tone. "Should I meet thee at thy quarters?"

"At sundown?" Susan suggests.

"Aye, 'tis a good time." He squeezes her hand gently.

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.)

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."

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.

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."

She curls up a little, watching him still out of the corner of her eye, as best she can while still attending to her net. "Annie," she offers, with a nod. "I'm Annie Cresta."

"Well met, lady," he says lightly. He won't disturb her, he can tell she is uneasy and perhaps doesn't want his company -- but if she will talk with him, then he will gladly talk with her.

She's honestly not sure what she wants at this moment, but uneasy company is better than sitting in her room by herself, frightened of the thoughts running through her head. So she settles back into her knots, casting glances at Lancelot and his sword from time to time. "It looks like you know how to use that," she says after a while, nodding at the sword.

"I do," he says lightly. "I am a knight of the High King's court."

Or was, some part of him thinks.

She stares at him blankly. “What’s that?” Really, anything in that sentence she’s confused by. (Or she’s read about them ages ago, and since forgotten.)

"I--" He pauses to consider, then tries, "I am trained as a warrior, that I may protect the King and Queen, their court, and any others who need protection."

That covers most of it; to discuss questing feels like too much.

“Oh.” She considers this for a moment, nodding. “Like police, I guess. Kind of.” She’s trained as a warrior, too, in a way; but she’s not about to offer that up just yet.

He's not entirely sure about police, in this sense, but he vaguely gets it, so he nods. "In a manner of speaking. I also would serve to carry out any tasks the King may need, away from court. And if there were a battle or a war, I would serve there as well."

“Oh. So more like a soldier?” This is a confusing concept, but it’s caught her interest a little, at least.

"Aye, like so."

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.

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?"

He glances over. "Yes. Are you?"

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

"You weren't hurt yesterday?"

"I was," he admits, then pauses, "Magnus healed the wound. I am well and whole."

Galahad smiles for a split-second. "Magnus healed me too. He's--" He signs, though he's not facing Lancelot and there's no reason for Lancelot to understand even if he were: wonderful, amazing. "My best friend," he says, after a space.

"That is well," lightly. He holds the blade up to the light again to check for marks or knicks. "Magnus likes me not, but he fights well and he cured in whole what would have been a grievous wound."

He looks up again, and almost asks why, but he knows why. He shades the leaf of feverfew, adding shadows, and says instead, "I'm glad you are whole now."

"Aye, as am I," he sets aside the whetstone and starts to wipe the blade down. "I would have been helpless on the field, were it not for him. I am grateful."

Galahad finds that he's grateful too. He still doesn't truly know what he and Lancelot are to one another -- he doesn't want a father. For so long he's had God for his parents, and he doesn't want to replace Him; if God couldn't be a good Father or Mother, he doesn't believe a person could be. So Lancelot is something else that he doesn't fully understand, but not something he wants to give up, either.

He sits in quiet, while they each do their own work.

After a long while, Lancelot says quietly, "I hear you acquitted yourself well. But I am very glad to see you unharmed, and glad, too, that peace is restored."

"I don't want to be a sword any more. I will if it's like yesterday. If it's needed. But I want something else." It's a lot of wanting, admitted out loud, but he's practicing.

At first, he's not entirely certain he's heard Galahad correctly -- he certainly doesn't know who has made Galahad believe that he must be a sword. But then he thinks back to Laertes saying if you want to be more than a blade and a pang flashes through him.

He sheathes his own blade and puts it aside. "Aye? That's well. It seems here we have time and chance enough to do as we will."

"Did you choose to be a knight?"

Lancelot does not think he has ever thought about this; he has never questioned what he was meant to be, trained to be. He looks very thoughtful for a few breaths.

"No, I did not choose it-- I never thought there could be a choice." He sounds a little surprised. "I wanted it, I don't recall ever wanting anything else. I was not unhappy. But I also cannot recall a time when I didn't know it was expected of me. It was just--" He pauses, shrugs a little. "What I would be. What I am. What I was meant for."

Galahad nods. There's some strange reassurance in knowing that they have this in common, that they both accepted a destiny without question, and at the same time it makes him want to reach into himself and grab hold of that part that's angry with God, to blow on it until it becomes more than an ember. He thinks about Magnus, wanting something other than his purpose -- even SecUnit. Even Laertes talked about making himself new.

He wonders if everyone feels that way, if what seemed so isolating and deviant to him, to push against what you were made for and given no say in, is actually common-place. That idea makes him angry and sad at the same time: it isn't all God's doing, but it feels as if God should have done something about it.

(He believes in God -- it's nearly impossible not to when He's been the Word in his head for so long -- but more and more he thinks he doesn't love God. God is a Father who has demanded perfection from him all his life, and permitted no failure, and Galahad has failed. Sometimes he even longs to fail. He likes the striving, the time he needs to learn a new skill, the effort it takes to be wrong and try again. He wants it. He doesn't want to be perfect any more, if he ever did, and though he thinks he will still want to please God for the rest of his life, he will always in some way wish he could be taken back, it isn't the prevailing want of his life. There is room for other things, and he's glad.)

But God should have protected everyone else. If God expected certain things of Galahad, everyone else is just human, and Galahad is angry that the Father of the world couldn't have spared His children this. It should be possible.

All he says, very quietly, is, "Now?"

Lancelot glances down, sighing a little. "Now? This has been... difficult, for me. I miss-- it is easy to feel I have no purpose. I know not what I am meant to do with myself, or-- what I should be."

Another nod. "It's hard."

"Aye, so it is," sounding a little resigned.

He has no intention of rushing Lancelot on this point, and he's quiet then.

Lancelot sits thinking for a moment and then asks, "May I speak honestly? I do not wish to burden you."

"Speak."

He takes a breath, and doesn't try to look at Galahad as he speaks. "I was not unhappy as a knight. But I had been very unhappy at court, for some while, and nothing seemed to ease it. As I think I said, that is why I left-- I said I was questing, but I mostly needed to be away and alone," he rubs the back of his neck. "At first, here, I was distressed. Pained. That hasn't gotten much better, but in the last few days I have found some hope. And I would thank you, as you've helped with that. Showing me that I may learn new things. Try to enjoy something else. Perhaps start to let go of what has hurt me."

Galahad is watching him, though, with that severe unflinching gaze. "Good."

"I hope so, yes," still looking down at his hands.

"It's better to have chosen."

He glances up, smiles a little. "Is it?"

His chin comes up, as if Lancelot had challenged him. "It is."

Lancelot says gently, "I do not doubt you. I am curious."

"Curious?"

"Yes-- what is it like for you, having chosen? You have friends here. I see you doing these things I am sure you never could do at court, and they seem to give you peace."

"I miss God," quietly. "But this is better."

Gently, with a small smile, "I am glad, then."

"I hope it's better for you too."

"Thank you," sincerely. "I'm at work on it."

He nods, and drops his gaze back to the feverfew.

Lancelot leaves him be, then, and gathers up his things. As he heads back toward the mansion he says, expecting no answer, "Be well, Galahad."

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."

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

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

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

"Oh my God," Janet says reflexively. "You know what, sure. We have Galahad. Why not fucking Lancelot."

His expression flattens a little, though it remains polite. "Aye, well, I assure you, lady, I did not intend to arrive here. But, I am pleased to meet you."

"Right, okay. Hi," she says again. "I'm Janet. I'm a queen of Fillory. Yes, I know you haven't heard of it." She's looking at him pretty intently. "How's it going with Guinevere, pal?"

His mouth turns down somewhat, but at this point he is starting to feel resigned to this kind of thing.

"Well met, Queen Janet," evenly. "As many here now know, it goes poorly with my own Queen."

"Too bad. Good luck with that. Go get 'em, tiger." Janet crosses her arms. "I saw you out there fighting zombies. Not bad." Actually, really very not bad, but she's too prickly to say that much.

"My many thanks," dryly, "I am glad I could be of use."

"I think a lot of us kind of needed that," Janet says, equally dry. "Not a lot of psychotherapy available around here, so we just have to bash in zombie heads to get some relief."

At this he does nearly smile. It's very faint. (Psychotherapy reminds him of Susan, the only person he knows who can speak on it. This inclines him to perhaps like Janet just a bit more.) "It seems many have not been having the best of weeks, yes."

"More like a bad entire being trapped in a pocket world with no escape and no obvious clues about the magic holding us here," Janet says. "But otherwise, yep."

He nods, "That's true. It felt good to fight, though."

"So fucking good." Janet slings a little smirk his way. "I'm no good with a sword, but I have axes. Two of them."

"Have you? I should have liked to see that."

Janet's done this trick about a million times here, and it's losing its shine, plus she's tired as hell still, but fuck it. Why not. She flips her pair of black-metal staves off her back, one in each hand, and forms the solid ice axe heads on their ends one more time. "Ta-da."

Lancelot grins at her, brightly, "Lady that is--" Wonderful? Tremendous? Hot? -- all of these he cannot say. "I am very impressed."

All right, a little frank admiration doesn't go amiss. Janet smirks a little, preening despite herself, and twirls one of the axes in her hand. "These used to be one spear, but I broke it in half."

"I would prefer this, myself."

"Yeah, I took it off a guy who fucked with me." She laughs, not quite as tense as she was at the start of their conversation. As usual anytime she holds Sorrow and Sorrow for longer than a minute, her hands start to frost over.

"I shall keep it in mind not to cross you."

"Aw, smart man." Janet lets the axe heads melt away until she's only holding staves again. She tucks them into their place on her back. "I'm also a magician generally. But your sword is cool too, I guess."

He laughs a little, "My sword is nothing special, except that it's mine. I am not surprised to find you have magic as well, given what you've just shown me."

"They have magic where you come from, obviously." Janet makes a vague gesture at him. "Arthurian... whatever."

"Aye, so we do," perhaps with a degree of careful patience.

Janet gives him one more look of thoughtful assessment. She hasn't seen Galahad in a long time, like since he was claiming his name was Damien -- maybe she needs to accidentally on purpose run into him and scope out this situation. "See you around, Lancelot," she says, and gives him a little wave before she heads out.

"Be well, Queen Janet," he says in response, and goes back to his sword, though he does watch her go with a thoughtful expression.

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.

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."

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

"Turned you?"

“Yeah, turned. In the movies— er, the stories, if you’re bitten by a zombie, you become a zombie. Now that would’ve been a mess.”

"I'm very much glad that wasn't the case."

“Small blessings, right?” Crowley says, dryly. “Those stories usually end with the downfall of humanity and the end of the world.”

"I'm glad we have avoided that. You managed all right, I see?"

Crowley shrugs. "I did okay. Set some of them on fire. Opened up a pit here and there." He probably helped Lancelot out once or twice from his vantage point in the window, like he did with many others in the mansion, but he doesn't need to know that.

"We seem to have come through all right. And though I enjoyed the fight, I would rather something like that didn't happen again."

“Sometimes you just need to do something to feel useful,” Crowley says, shrugging. “Everyone needs a purpose and I think a lot of us have been struggling to find one since we’ve arrived.”

Crowley also struggled at first without the purpose of Hell behind him but since then, it’s almost been freeing.

Lancelot nods, "That's true. Or anyway, it's been true for me."

"What's your normal purpose?" Crowley asks. He glances at the sword and raises an eyebrow.

"I am one of the High King's knights, with a seat at the Round Table, and Queen's Champion."

"Right, but not a single bit of that is applicable here," Crowley says, brushing off everything Lancelot just said. "What's your purpose here?"

"You asked about my normal purpose," pointedly. "I don't know what my purpose is here, now. I am trying to go day by day. I am trying to make friends. To-- sort through things. But I don't really know."

"And my point is that your normal purpose is moot now. Insignificant. Useless." He shrugs. "And it's really shitty at first." Until you befriend someone who is apparently the villain from Hamlet -- and then not too long after that, your angelic best friend arrives. Then it's tolerable. Maybe even good.

Lancelot gives him a puzzled look, and after a moment he says, "Well, yes, but that's-- I've already come to that determination."

Edited (adjusted because typist failed at reading comprehension ;p) 2023-11-25 15:10 (UTC)

"Great," Crowley says, sounding vaguely pleased, like he's accomplished something. "Want a drink?"

He half-laughs, shrugs. "I suppose I've been useful enough today. Of course, that sounds good."

Crowley produces two old fashioneds from thin air and hands him one; he'd normally make it by hand, just because that's what he's used to doing, but they aren't anywhere near a bar. "To being useful," he says, tipping his glass in a cheers.

Somehow, Lancelot manages to seem surprised at the sudden production of two cocktails entire, but he does raise his glass to Crowley, "Aye. Just so."

He takes a long sip, then nods appreciatively. "This is good. What is it?"

"It's called an old fashioned. Whiskey cocktail." He tips the glass towards him slightly. "Cheers."

"Cheers," smiling, "I like it."

If Lancelot doesn’t say much else, Crowley will just sip at his old fashioned in silence. To be fair, he did a lot talking during the truth spell.

He does sit quietly for some time, sipping his drink, and eventually says, "Have you found some way to fill your days without your usual purpose?"

"Might have," he says a little cagily, thinking of his long theological discussions with Claudius and his recent glasses of wine with Aziraphale. Even his solitary saunters around the lake and the days he spends drinking by himself, just thinking. Friendship. Quiet. He relents slightly. "I'm just enjoying the peace. It's something I haven't had in a long while."

Lancelot nods, feelingly, "Aye, that I understand."

"It turns out that you get a lot of peace without Hell hanging over your shoulder," Crowley continues, dryly.

He quirks a little smile at him, "I can see how that would be so."

“No torture looming over your head,” Crowley continues musing. “Did you know there’s a room in Hell where all they do is give you little papercuts all over your body? Just tiny papercuts for the rest of eternity?”

Lancelot doubts that he himself has ever had a papercut, but he sips his drink and says, "I have heard tales of hell, but I have never been certain what was true. But then, you have first-hand experience."

"There's a lot of nonsense out there," he admits. "You can't believe everything that you hear."

At this he laughs, perhaps a little harder than he means to. "No? The tales don't speak the truth?"

“Nah, it’s all so disorganized down there. Filled with bureaucracy. More paperwork, rules, and regulations than you’d think,” Crowley says with obvious distaste.

"Paperwork?" He genuinely does not know what this is.

“It’s, er-“ Crowley pauses. How in someone’s name do you explain what paperwork is? “In the future, when you have to do something - especially when you’re at work - you usually have to fill out a form when you do it. You know¹, writing down what you’ve done and everything.”

¹He doesn’t know, Crowley!!

"A report?"

"Yeah, something like that. Hell has a lot of reports. A lot of written documentation. Heaven does too. They think they're so different but they're actually two Sides of the same coin."

"It sounds... dull?"

"Oh absolutely. Quite dull. I always say that I'm not sure what's worse, the monotony of Heaven or the excitement of Hell... or the bureaucracy of either."

"I suppose it isn't dull for the souls who land there," thoughtfully. He takes another sip of his drink.

"No, not at all." Crowley tilts the remnants of his drink back, standing up. He's hit his conversational limit¹. "Well, it was great chatting. Good luck finding purpose and all that."

¹Though, to be fair, this limit does not exist for a select few of the mansion residents.

"Thank you," amused. "Be well, Crowley."

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."

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?"

"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."

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."

"You know better now," says Laertes. His arms still hang slack at his sides, although he wants to fold them over his chest to soothe or defend himself. He tries to keep his voice calm and clear, to tamp down the roiling anger in his breast. "Would you strike your son again, if you lost your temper?"

Now he does look up, and he very much looks pained. But he answers Laertes' question, "No. I would not. I did not know then that I was."

Lancelot scrubs his hands over his face again, "After, I-- I spoke with Sagramore. He knew Galahad to be my son, knew him at court. Knew I had acknowledged him. That's twenty years hence, for me, but I knew then that it was so. I have apologized to Galahad. I wish him no ill. I like him very much, though it's hard to imagine myself his father. He's not to blame for what was done to me, and I told him so. I would never harm him, now."

Laertes lets himself hear the sincere regret in Lancelot's voice, and tries to imagine his own father speaking so--tries to imagine him apologizing for any wrong he'd done, saying that Laertes is not to blame, promising that he would never harm him. It's impossible to do. He knows in his heart that Polonius has never believed that he has wronged his son, and that if Laertes tried to explain what a ruin Polonius had made of him, Polonius would counter and dissemble until Laertes thought himself in the wrong for being hurt.

Polonius has been a father to Laertes all his life, and Lancelot was new-made a father upon arriving here--and yet, if what Lancelot says is true, he has done better with his few short weeks than Polonius has done with thirty years.

"When I first came here," Laertes says, a little softer now, "I also hurt him. I told him that his affair with Claudius could not be lasting, because princes owe their destinies to their country and not to their loves. He was such a glad thing, when I met him, and my first act here was to dim the joyous light of him. I was a fool, then. I thought I understand all the world's cruel ways, and thought to snatch a sweet thing from his lips because I could not imagine sweetness without poison at its heart. I know better now. And so do you."

Edited 2023-11-22 23:03 (UTC)

He looks at his hands again before he says, "No. I knew better, then, too. But I was hurt, and like a beast that's hurt I lunged, mindlessly. It sounds you also hurt him, with your words, because you felt hurt he did not cause."

Lancelot clears his throat, "I would tell you something, very personal-- an you find the need to tell Claudius, I'll not mind. It's no secret, I suppose, anymore. But if you'll hear me, I will tell it."

"Ay, say on." Laertes sits on the far end of the bench, straight-backed, still restraining tremors with every ounce of will in him.

"Perhaps you know of this already. Sagramore knows, we've spoken of it. Galahad told it to me that first meeting. Everyone at court knows, in their time," a little breath. He won't look at Laertes. "I did choose to lie with Galahad's mother, but I thought her to be the Queen. She-- I still know not how. She deceived me in order to lie with me. Until the next morning, I thought her to be Guinevere. I remember little enough, except that in the morning... there she was. Elaine. Not Guinevere. I chose it, but it sickens me to know it happened so easily."

He lets out a sigh. "I told the Queen, and she was furious with me. She sent me from her sight and would not hear any more from me. This is why I found a way to leave court. It has-- it's so hard to think of. It happened twenty years ago for them but not even a year for me. This must be when Galahad was begat. It is a... it is very painful. This is what drove me to such... with Galahad, that first day."

"Thou wert violated," says Laertes, low. He's heard of bed-tricks like this, one bride replaced with another under cover of darkness, and heard young men laugh at the embarrassment of bedding anything but a beauty--but hearing Lancelot describe what happened, it's impossible to think of it as anything but a rape. "Then the woman thou servest punished thee for that violation. What an ugly thing it was that was done to thee--first by Elaine, and then by Guinevere."

He shivers a little and tries to stifle it. "Galahad tells me that it happened a second time, and that they say at court that I went mad and was missing. I believe it. I do not doubt I was far worse to him than... that I would ever like to be. I am not saying it excuses me. I should not have attacked him. But I was beyond thinking. Only after he put me down did my head clear."

"Because, an he were truly thy son, then the harm done thee was real." Laertes sits back against the backrest of the bench, gazing out toward the lake.

"I just could not understand it," quietly, a kind of agreement. "I think I am easier, now, than I was... will be, when Galahad knew me. Sagramore said that I am angry, always, and I suppose I can understand. If it happens again, if things go on at court as they have been. I have sinned much, I know this, but--"

Laertes lets him finish, hoping that in that but is some ember he can waken to flame.

He is gazing out at the lake as well, now. "To think that things only get worse... I would rather be here, I think, than that."

Laertes shifts a little closer on the bench--not touching, but close enough that if Lancelot wanted to reach out, he could. "Then it's well that thou art here."

"Do you-- have I--" He lets out a breath. "You should speak with Galahad."

"I will. But I'll stay my judgment until then." He turns, one knee hooked up onto the seat of the bench, one elbow over the back of it. "Thou art hurting. Can I aid thee?"

He shakes his head. "I'd rather have you reassured."

"Know this--I came to thee in a rage only because of the great love and respect that I bear for Galahad. And the guilt I still carry for the harm I did him," Laertes admits. "If thou hast truly made amends, it would gladden my heart."

"I believe that we have, but he's the only one who can say for certain."

"Then I'll go, and hope that next time we meet, both our hearts will be easier for it." Laertes rises from the bench and sets off--back toward the mansion, and not into the woods. He finds he's lost his taste for adventure.

Lancelot sighs, watching him go, and then turns back to his task.

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

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