Laertes sits, and lets go of Lancelot's hand to wrap an arm around his waist. Angry though he is at his father--angry in a dull, unquenchable way, a roiling rage always close beneath the surface--he can't imagine what it would be like to be without him. His father was a fact of the world, immutable as the sun. Without him, Laertes would have surely spun careening into the void. "Christ, that was a hard thing for a boy of nine to bear. I'm glad thou wert not alone with it."