[Open Post] ..hell yes i mind..

[lanselos_du_lac]

It's been a long while since Lancelot felt this way: angry and adrift, too overwhelmed and in his own head to determine how best to manage it. (If Susan were here, it would be simple -- but the fact that his Susan is gone is part of the problem.) His anger is a hot stone at his center, a roiling mess, a weapon without a target. He still feels that he would like to smash something, start a fight, find some way to externalize everything all the things he could not bring himself to say to the Galahad who is far older than he ought to be, the quiet king of a quiet kingdom.

A fulfilled purpose. A completed quest. A long chain of manipulation and events that dragged Lancelot along in its wake, and that (in this other time, he has to acknowledge, not his time and not now) led only to the ruin of everything Lancelot had cared for. And for what? It makes him furious to think that the price of the Grail was Galahad's joy, Galahad's self, and that that price was somehow being paid long before Galahad was even born.

That's just the start of it; there is more, much more, and it feels like it will keep spooling out without ceasing.

His impulse, as ever, is to stalk off to his room and stay there until he feels he can manage himself. (He thinks, not for the first time, of himself ten years older and outwardly angry, angry enough that everyone sees it, fears him or dreads his company. A man who lashes out. He does not want that future, but this possibility has always been somewhere just under the surface; he's always known it. Sometimes it has worked for him, with him, but he knows that it is dangerous and there is no one in this place that he would want to bear witness to it.) If this were Camelot, that is what he would do.

Since he can't figure what to do, he settles for a middle ground. It's been a long while since he felt like getting very deliberately drunk, but that appeals just now, and so he heads for one of the smaller bars, just off the main corridor.

^{[Note: All are welcome! Those who care for Lancelot and/or those who also wish to fistfight God are particularly welcome.]}

Comments

[timebethine]

"... what?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"There is nothing that stops thee. Everything is possible."

[timebethine]

"For thee, as well."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I think thou dost outpace me, in many things, but I mind that not."

[timebethine]

"Thine is an enduring spirit--mine, a sudden flame, soon extinguished." He crouches down to blow on the tinder, encouraging the flame to grow and catch on the larger bits of wood.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I don't agree," cheerfully. "Thou'rt stubborn, when it suits thee."

[timebethine]

"Thou likest me stubborn."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"That's true. Even when thou'rt maddening."

[timebethine]

"When have I been maddening!" he laughs, aiming for indignation and missing egregiously.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He makes an exaggerated thinking sound, then says, "It has been some while. But doubtless that it one thing that drew me toward thee."

[timebethine]

"I see," says Laertes, putting his hand to his chin in a pose of deep contemplation. "Then I ought to be more maddening, if I understand thee aright."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Cloudst attempt a different kind," grinning at him.

[timebethine]

"Oh?" he asks, grinning back.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye-- no more being maddening in the way that makes me want to argue with thee. More of the... other sort."

[timebethine]

"The kind that makes thee wild to do something heedless and new?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Just so."

[timebethine]

"Well--thou couldst do worse than study the sciences, or try thy hand at the arts," says Laertes. He starts oiling a pan while the water boils, tilting it this way and that to let the oil spread evenly across the surface. "I've been playing upon the viol again, of late. A part of me cringes at my failures, but I cannot improve without them, and so I must accept them as my stern tutors."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I do not know I am suited for music."

[timebethine]

"Canst not sing?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

A little laugh, "I don't know. I have rarely sung."

[timebethine]

"Try, then," says Laertes as he tips the onions and celery into the pan. The warm, sharp scent of cooking onions rises almost immediately.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Ah, Christ," laughing. "Sing to thee?"

[timebethine]

"Ay, whatever thou canst remember."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Oh," he says, wincing a little. At first, the only thing that comes to mind is Mass -- he absolutely cannot sing a portion of the Mass to Laertes, nor does he wish to, after today. There is a slightly long span of silence before Lancelot recalls one of Dinadin's¹ songs, much requested at banquets thanks to its simultaneous uplifting and gloriously silly reframing of Arthur.

So he sets in on that -- he is not as fine a singer as Dinadin. He is... well, he is a passable singer who does not quite know whether he is a tenor or a bass. But there are notes in the tenor range that are sweet, and once he overcomes his anxiety there is a kind of ease, since this is for Laertes.

^{1: Dinadin is a knight of Sagramore's generation, and so for Lancelot he seems very young, new to court. But Dinadin was also undeniably funny and perceptive, and Lancelot quite liked him -- though he never spoke with him individually. Even as early as this, Lancelot was careful not to make new friends at court.}

[timebethine]

While he sings, Laertes continues to add ingredients to the pan, gently stirring now and then to help them cook evenly. There's a comfortable domesticity to it, a pleasure in the song and the new ring of Lancelot's voice. His is an untrained instrument, Laertes thinks, but a well-made one; as Lancelot's nerves fade, those sweet notes come through all the clearer. When it's finished, Laertes smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. "That was well done, my heart," he says. "It made me glad to hear it."