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lanselos_du_lacOn the day of the snowfall, Lancelot finally decides. He leaves his sword hanging on the wall -- he doesn't know what a snow day is, but it's fine to take one. The snow will make his footing bad for drills, and it feels strange to run drills in the practice room. Still, he's up at his usual time of just before dawn, and bundled into his warm things. He takes the long way to the stables, the quiet of the mansion's lawn and surroundings at this hour enhanced by the muffling snow.
It is one of his mornings when things feel more difficult than usual; he needs to shake that off before lunchtime. (He does realize that these mornings are more likely when he and Susan don't share a bed. That's fine. It's all right.) Some mornings he wakes and he looks at his room -- cozier now, but still sometimes unfamiliar on first waking -- and he does not think that he can get out of bed. He feels he would rather stay. Close his eyes. See if he wakes up in his rooms at Camelot. See if he wakes up on the floor here, but with Arthur close by.
For the most part, he typically lets himself stay like that, heavy and hopeless, for five or ten minutes and then he forces himself up, to dress, to go run drills, to bathe, and so on. He has his mental checklist and knowing what he's supposed to do helps. Usually the sensation shakes off once he's sweating in the practice yard, and things are all right. He doubts anyone notices.
On those days, he often cannot bring himself to go to the stable. To see the bay, to see Arthur's tack still there. It stings -- more than stings, it feels like a gaping wound he can't staunch or close. He can tell himself, again and again, that he is glad Arthur was sent back. That Britain needs her High King more than Lancelot needs Arthur. That Guinever needs her husband, who loves her, and with whom surely now she is happy; they can be as they were meant to be. But still there is the part of him that finds it desperately, brutally unfair that he should wake that morning to find his ... to find Arthur gone, but all his damned gear and this steed still here. It would be easier, he thinks, without these keepsakes he did not ask for.
He's happy here, most of the time. He is happy with Susan. He is learning things about himself he would never have been able to back at court. He lets Grantaire teach him games and Laertes teach him how the kitchen works and now and then he does drink a little with Sagramore, and it all feels good. It's not that he's unhappy. That's life, he supposes, I was not perfectly happy at court, either. Even though he's alone with his thoughts, he gives that little shrug.
Sometimes when he wakes up heavy, it's because he has had a dream, usually of Camelot. Arthur and Gwen happy, which is always both reassuring and fills him with something like anger. (That's grief. He doesn't quite know it, but that is grief.) Arthur and Gwen sorrowing and falling to ruin because he is gone, and he should never have left them, he should have chosen Arthur and they would have gone home together. Very occasionally it's that he is both there and here and no one will speak to him, everyone turns away from him, even Arthur and Susan.
Well. What's to be done except what he's always done. Get up, go to, keep moving. By the time he reaches the stable he's mostly set aside that grey, empty, roaring feeling. Perhaps finally giving the bay gelding a name will make him feel he's accomplished something that's expected of him. That would be good.
Inside the stall, listening to Fenyes munching the oats he's just given her, he sets aside the bay's blanket and saddles him. He leads him out and they go riding. He doesn't put him into a canter today because of the snow, but he lets the horse have his head and do as he pleases for a little while. Eventually, as he turns them back toward the stable he says to the bay, in his wobbly Breton (he used to speak it very well, but it was largely the language of smallfolk, his father said, and discouraged him), "Cannot call you Lancelot the Horse. 'Tis charming, but no fit name, and will cause confusion. Cannot call you Arthur. Let's call you Rivelin1. That will do, and does your coloring justice."
They ride back to the stable, and Lancelot spends a while putting tack away and brushing Rivelin before putting the blanket back in place. He says quietly, "I'll do better by you. I just needed time."
The sun is well up, now, and before long he will be looking for Susan in the café. He does feel better, he knows he looks better having shaken off the gloom. Everything will be well. He will need to find Sagramore to tell him about the name. He will make sure to tell Gideon, too, and she'll probably tease him. And of course he'll tell Susan, not least because she will ask why it looks as if he's spent all morning out in the cold.
He is smiling by the time he's going in the door and stamping the snow off his boots. It will be well, he knows. Get up, go to, keep moving.
1 - In this typist's first ever footnote, Rivelin is a Breton name "Derived from Breton ri "king" and belin "brilliant"."
It is one of his mornings when things feel more difficult than usual; he needs to shake that off before lunchtime. (He does realize that these mornings are more likely when he and Susan don't share a bed. That's fine. It's all right.) Some mornings he wakes and he looks at his room -- cozier now, but still sometimes unfamiliar on first waking -- and he does not think that he can get out of bed. He feels he would rather stay. Close his eyes. See if he wakes up in his rooms at Camelot. See if he wakes up on the floor here, but with Arthur close by.
For the most part, he typically lets himself stay like that, heavy and hopeless, for five or ten minutes and then he forces himself up, to dress, to go run drills, to bathe, and so on. He has his mental checklist and knowing what he's supposed to do helps. Usually the sensation shakes off once he's sweating in the practice yard, and things are all right. He doubts anyone notices.
On those days, he often cannot bring himself to go to the stable. To see the bay, to see Arthur's tack still there. It stings -- more than stings, it feels like a gaping wound he can't staunch or close. He can tell himself, again and again, that he is glad Arthur was sent back. That Britain needs her High King more than Lancelot needs Arthur. That Guinever needs her husband, who loves her, and with whom surely now she is happy; they can be as they were meant to be. But still there is the part of him that finds it desperately, brutally unfair that he should wake that morning to find his ... to find Arthur gone, but all his damned gear and this steed still here. It would be easier, he thinks, without these keepsakes he did not ask for.
He's happy here, most of the time. He is happy with Susan. He is learning things about himself he would never have been able to back at court. He lets Grantaire teach him games and Laertes teach him how the kitchen works and now and then he does drink a little with Sagramore, and it all feels good. It's not that he's unhappy. That's life, he supposes, I was not perfectly happy at court, either. Even though he's alone with his thoughts, he gives that little shrug.
Sometimes when he wakes up heavy, it's because he has had a dream, usually of Camelot. Arthur and Gwen happy, which is always both reassuring and fills him with something like anger. (That's grief. He doesn't quite know it, but that is grief.) Arthur and Gwen sorrowing and falling to ruin because he is gone, and he should never have left them, he should have chosen Arthur and they would have gone home together. Very occasionally it's that he is both there and here and no one will speak to him, everyone turns away from him, even Arthur and Susan.
Well. What's to be done except what he's always done. Get up, go to, keep moving. By the time he reaches the stable he's mostly set aside that grey, empty, roaring feeling. Perhaps finally giving the bay gelding a name will make him feel he's accomplished something that's expected of him. That would be good.
Inside the stall, listening to Fenyes munching the oats he's just given her, he sets aside the bay's blanket and saddles him. He leads him out and they go riding. He doesn't put him into a canter today because of the snow, but he lets the horse have his head and do as he pleases for a little while. Eventually, as he turns them back toward the stable he says to the bay, in his wobbly Breton (he used to speak it very well, but it was largely the language of smallfolk, his father said, and discouraged him), "Cannot call you Lancelot the Horse. 'Tis charming, but no fit name, and will cause confusion. Cannot call you Arthur. Let's call you Rivelin1. That will do, and does your coloring justice."
They ride back to the stable, and Lancelot spends a while putting tack away and brushing Rivelin before putting the blanket back in place. He says quietly, "I'll do better by you. I just needed time."
The sun is well up, now, and before long he will be looking for Susan in the café. He does feel better, he knows he looks better having shaken off the gloom. Everything will be well. He will need to find Sagramore to tell him about the name. He will make sure to tell Gideon, too, and she'll probably tease him. And of course he'll tell Susan, not least because she will ask why it looks as if he's spent all morning out in the cold.
He is smiling by the time he's going in the door and stamping the snow off his boots. It will be well, he knows. Get up, go to, keep moving.
1 - In this typist's first ever footnote, Rivelin is a Breton name "Derived from Breton ri "king" and belin "brilliant"."
