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

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.

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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."

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