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Lancelot has never been good at "making friends." As a boy, he trained diligently and every day was in service of eventual knighthood. What friends he had were those he'd known all his life, his cousins and kinfolk. They were just there, he just knew them as they knew him. He never gave it any kind of thought.
When he finally left his father's holdings and traveled to court, he found that either those he met were right away enamored of him, impressed by him, or they disliked him -- and if they disliked him, he simply paid them no attention at all. He has always been one to be either struck in a heartbeat by love and wonder that immediately became devotion (Guinevere, Arthur) or to accept camaraderie from those sworn to the same service and find that to be more than enough. Other knights treated him with deference, which suited him.
He has never been sure when it started that even a small flash of anger would kindle him instantly to something like rage; when it became usual for him to lash out against a man if not granted the deference he expected, or if he felt offence. He has felt that part of himself like a bare nerve, an almost physical sensation, more and more of late -- infinitely worse since Corbenic. One wrong word and the anger springs like a trap, cutting off any thought or reason, and sometimes afterwards he cannot even recall what sprung it.
He had confessed the matter with Lady Elaine to the Queen the same day he had returned; they were alone, closeted together, and as he began speaking he felt ice and fire at once, all over his skin. At first she wept, which he supposes he expected, but when he moved to comfort her she rounded on him. They had quarreled before, sometimes rather hotly, but it had never been like this. He hadn't been aware Guinevere could raise her voice at him that way, could be so cutting, and at first he tried to argue back, to explain, to beg forgiveness, but there was no use in any of that. He remembers she ordered him out of her sight and he remembers going, but he remembers nothing of that evening or the next handful of days, except that he was told he returned to her door at the turning of each of the hours only to have a lady send him away again.
The Queen and her ladies rode out without him, he knows not how many times or for how long, and it became clear to him that she would not ask him back. The King tried to speak with him and Lancelot stood, nodded, bowed, responded respectfully -- he remembers little of this, too. He began to make arrangements to go questing and he knows the story he gave was not convincing. He does remember that he asked their leave to go while Arthur held court, he remembers kneeling and everyone looking on. He remembers that Arthur's expression was pained and that Guinevere would not look at him. He doesn't know whether he looked composed, but it's likely he did (he figures now) because he could feel nothing at all but a kind of searing emptiness.
Now, in this new place, he still often feels nothing. Or rather, he waits until some feeling or sensation makes itself known and then he tries to sort it out. He spends many hours alone in his room, which is still bare but which suits him that way. He is sorry, very much so, for how he treated Galahad. He is sorry that those first few days he was just as quick to anger as he had been in Britain. When his mind won't quiet, which is most of the time, he goes looking for drink. He considers what Sagramore has said to him; he considers Laertes. Folk here seem content to be here, as if this is a new opportunity and not a purgatory.
Sagramore had suggested he make friends. He doesn't much know how to do that. But the more he considers it, the more it seems that he could determine this place to be freedom rather than a trap. It doesn't remove anything that's hurt him. It doesn't dissolve his love for the Queen or the King. But for the first time in a very long time he doesn't feel as if he's struggling constantly, hopelessly, with only grief and rage and longing to be gained from it. Susan's lesson suggests that there are other ways of making sense that do not involve making war (against himself, against his shame, against anyone). Perhaps that's so.
Lancelot thinks: Well, if at court they believe me to be dead, perhaps I am dead. If I am not a knight of the court, then I know not who I am. If I am not a blade, then perhaps I might be-- what?
He cannot say. But here there is no duty, no need to consider what the King needs of him, what the Queen wants from him, whether he should love her as he does or whether he should beg forgiveness (hers or the King's) with every breath. He's not meant to be doing anything, which is strange. He thinks on this, and for the first time feels that perhaps nothing is enough for now. He will think, and talk to those who'll talk with him, and he will drink, and see what happens.
He'll wait, and see what happens.
When he finally left his father's holdings and traveled to court, he found that either those he met were right away enamored of him, impressed by him, or they disliked him -- and if they disliked him, he simply paid them no attention at all. He has always been one to be either struck in a heartbeat by love and wonder that immediately became devotion (Guinevere, Arthur) or to accept camaraderie from those sworn to the same service and find that to be more than enough. Other knights treated him with deference, which suited him.
He has never been sure when it started that even a small flash of anger would kindle him instantly to something like rage; when it became usual for him to lash out against a man if not granted the deference he expected, or if he felt offence. He has felt that part of himself like a bare nerve, an almost physical sensation, more and more of late -- infinitely worse since Corbenic. One wrong word and the anger springs like a trap, cutting off any thought or reason, and sometimes afterwards he cannot even recall what sprung it.
He had confessed the matter with Lady Elaine to the Queen the same day he had returned; they were alone, closeted together, and as he began speaking he felt ice and fire at once, all over his skin. At first she wept, which he supposes he expected, but when he moved to comfort her she rounded on him. They had quarreled before, sometimes rather hotly, but it had never been like this. He hadn't been aware Guinevere could raise her voice at him that way, could be so cutting, and at first he tried to argue back, to explain, to beg forgiveness, but there was no use in any of that. He remembers she ordered him out of her sight and he remembers going, but he remembers nothing of that evening or the next handful of days, except that he was told he returned to her door at the turning of each of the hours only to have a lady send him away again.
The Queen and her ladies rode out without him, he knows not how many times or for how long, and it became clear to him that she would not ask him back. The King tried to speak with him and Lancelot stood, nodded, bowed, responded respectfully -- he remembers little of this, too. He began to make arrangements to go questing and he knows the story he gave was not convincing. He does remember that he asked their leave to go while Arthur held court, he remembers kneeling and everyone looking on. He remembers that Arthur's expression was pained and that Guinevere would not look at him. He doesn't know whether he looked composed, but it's likely he did (he figures now) because he could feel nothing at all but a kind of searing emptiness.
Now, in this new place, he still often feels nothing. Or rather, he waits until some feeling or sensation makes itself known and then he tries to sort it out. He spends many hours alone in his room, which is still bare but which suits him that way. He is sorry, very much so, for how he treated Galahad. He is sorry that those first few days he was just as quick to anger as he had been in Britain. When his mind won't quiet, which is most of the time, he goes looking for drink. He considers what Sagramore has said to him; he considers Laertes. Folk here seem content to be here, as if this is a new opportunity and not a purgatory.
Sagramore had suggested he make friends. He doesn't much know how to do that. But the more he considers it, the more it seems that he could determine this place to be freedom rather than a trap. It doesn't remove anything that's hurt him. It doesn't dissolve his love for the Queen or the King. But for the first time in a very long time he doesn't feel as if he's struggling constantly, hopelessly, with only grief and rage and longing to be gained from it. Susan's lesson suggests that there are other ways of making sense that do not involve making war (against himself, against his shame, against anyone). Perhaps that's so.
Lancelot thinks: Well, if at court they believe me to be dead, perhaps I am dead. If I am not a knight of the court, then I know not who I am. If I am not a blade, then perhaps I might be-- what?
He cannot say. But here there is no duty, no need to consider what the King needs of him, what the Queen wants from him, whether he should love her as he does or whether he should beg forgiveness (hers or the King's) with every breath. He's not meant to be doing anything, which is strange. He thinks on this, and for the first time feels that perhaps nothing is enough for now. He will think, and talk to those who'll talk with him, and he will drink, and see what happens.
He'll wait, and see what happens.
