[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

[aflashbastard]

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.

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

“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.

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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

[lanselos_du_lac]

"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."

[aflashbastard]

"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.

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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.

[lanselos_du_lac]

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?"

[aflashbastard]

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

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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.

[lanselos_du_lac]

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?"

[aflashbastard]

"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."

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

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

[lanselos_du_lac]

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

[aflashbastard]

“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?”

[lanselos_du_lac]

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."

[aflashbastard]

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