[Open Post] ..only want to glean the purpose..

[lanselos_du_lac]

Since they learned of Shen Yuan's death, things have been subdued; rightly so, Lancelot reasons. He has done what he can to be a support for those he loves, and to keep his own worry and anxiety at bay. He worries about how they are all doing, about whether or not they are safe, about what he can do to make anything better -- which often feels like nothing. It's unsettling, and he wants to stay settled and present for them, so he determines to find a way to be so.

As has always been the case for him, being outside helps. The weather is warming and true spring is settling in. (He has difficulty keeping track of what time may be like back in Britain¹, but he suspects that it is early summer there. If so, then he supposes that means he is another year older, which is a strangely hopeful thought.) And so, after his lunch with Susan, he heads back out -- he might ride, or walk through the woods, or explore the lake. Whatever keeps him out in the sunshine, under the sky.



^{1: He has not quite realized this yet, but he has generally stopped thinking "at home" when he means Camelot, or Britain in general. That this place -- no, these people -- have become home in so short a span is something he has to take by degrees, lest he worry about what it means for his relationship with those he left behind there.}

Comments

[timebethine]

Then Laertes drags him toward the dock, shucking off shirt and boots and jeans as soon as his feet hit wood--he's unselfconscious in his nakedness, so brimful with the joy of the water that he cannot be modest or coy. He dives in where the water's deepest, the long clean blade of him cutting easily through the surface.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot lags, because watching Laertes has, in some ways, stunned him. That free and wild joy is striking; it is one of Laertes' gifts, and Lancelot doubts he'll ever learn the trick of it for himself. By the time Laertes surfaces, he's finally at the end of the dock, working off his own boots.

[timebethine]

Laertes shakes out his wet curls and grins up at him from the water. "Come thee in; I'll be thy siren, and lure thee from the shore."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I shall join thee. Thou'rt lure enough already."

[timebethine]

"Then hurry, or thou wilt not catch me--" and with that, Laertes is striking off for the far shore. Of late, he and Sagramore have gone swimming almost every day to cool down from the hot work of building their cabin, and by now he's a powerful and easy swimmer in the chilly water.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot laughs, swearing under his breath, and has the rest of his clothes off in a hurry, diving in with every intent to catch up with him.

[timebethine]

Perhaps unwisely, Laertes slows down a little to let Lancelot catch up--just a moment or two of looking back at Lancelot's face, wet and shining in the sunlight, smiling as though he's never known misery. And then Laertes is pouring on speed, trusting his stamina to see him through.

[lanselos_du_lac]

As in most areas of physicality, Lancelot is a fairly strong swimmer, and quick. Still, it has been a very long while since he swam at all, and Laertes probably has the edge on him. He sees Laertes pause and picks up his own pace, trying to catch him.

[timebethine]

Laertes has a destination in mind--the little pier he's been building near the cabin, still half-finished. As they approach the thick piles that Laertes and Sagramore have sunk into the lakebed, Laertes pulls harder, kicks harder, intent on reaching them first.

Lancelot is a strong swimmer, and Laertes's delay has cost him dearly; Lancelot's coming up close behind, now and then almost near enough to reach out and catch Laertes by the ankle. (A part of him wants to be caught.)

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot does come close -- at one point, Laertes will likely feel Lancelot catch at him, but in water of this depth he can't quite get leverage. He settles for pushing hard for the piles ahead.

[timebethine]

But Laertes is still just a hair ahead; he reaches one of those thick logs and draws himself up short on the crossbrace beam, laughing hard enough that he's afraid he'll get a stitch in his side. "Well fought, my heart! Bravely done!"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Christ," he's out of breath, laughing as well, and he pulls himself alongside Laertes. "Thou'rt quick."

[timebethine]

"I spent every summer of my boyhood in Denmark's rough seas; I'm the veriest herring in the water. And what of thee? Didst swim off the coast of Brittany?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Oh, some. More often for us, and too after I came to Britain, it was some pond or lake or river. Camelot is inland."

[timebethine]

Laertes heaves himself up onto the planks that they've managed to lay so far, and he sprawls out starfish-like to let the sun dry him. "Was it a fond memory, for thee? I have precious few of Denmark, but many of them, I forged in the water."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot lingers in the water, though he takes this opportunity to appreciate Laertes' form.

"I think... I think it was moreso after my cousins and I had gone to love with my foster mother. On days when we were freed from training or lessons, we swam in the lake there."

[timebethine]

"Wilt thou tell me of them? Didst thou keep those friendships into thy manhood?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye," he pauses to haul himself out of the water, and sit comfortably beside Laertes. "I had no brothers or sisters, but they two were near enough. Lionel is the younger, and Bors the elder. Bors was ever my closest friend, before I knew Arthur, and we are still close."

[timebethine]

His hand finds Lancelot's, and he presses it. "Wouldst have him here, an thou couldst?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

He considers, squeezing Laertes' fingers. "I would, I think. It's not that Bors does not have his role at court, but he is not the king, and there are always new knights coming to join the ranks. Bors gave me good advice, more often than not. Few enough folk understand me, anyway, but Bors knew me."

[timebethine]

"Tell me more of him," says Laertes. "Tell me who thou wert, with him--I would understand thee, if I could."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He squinches up his face a little, thinking, and then says, "I shall try. But I should begin with how we came to be friends. Our fathers were brothers; our mothers were sisters. We both lost our fathers around the same time. Things were... Britain was a mess. At any rate, my mother sent me to my foster mother, as we had next to nothing. I think I was nine? Bors and Lionel, in a similar situation, were sent along as support for me -- my father was the elder, and I think there was some thought that we might win back our holdings, eventually. In some ways, we had no choice but to be friends. There were not really other children at Brocélien, and they were family anyhow."

[timebethine]

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."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot nods, leaning against him. "Bors is much like me, in many ways. He is quiet around those he doesn't know well -- but he was always bolder, as a boy, than I ever was. He would do what he could to make me laugh, and occasionally was reprimanded for that. He is very good at listening, and has good sense. He would-- when things were difficult between Guinever and I, as they sometimes were, he would give good counsel."

[timebethine]

"What did he advise thee?"