It cracks something open in him; this is something he hadn't quite known that he needed.

He thinks, briefly, of Arthur admitting that he had failed him; he thinks, too, that he would never have expected or felt he deserved redress from either Guinever or Arthur.

But these feelings don't distract from what is here and now, from Laertes. From Laertes giving him what he needs, happy to do so, sincere in his words. Lancelot lets out a careful, fragile sigh and wraps both arms around him, burying his face in Laertes' hair, breathing him in.