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The day is warm and bright -- it's lovely, in fact -- and so Lancelot is doing his best to ignore the strange tension that has been dogging him over the last few days. He is, of course, keeping to his usual routine, which helps, and now he is in the little clearing where he and Magnus meet for training. He's waiting for Magnus to arrive, checking the straps of Arthur's shield while he waits, and doing his best to clear his head and focus up on what he has determined they need to focus on today.
In the few days since Dark ended, even Lancelot has noticed himself feeling easier. He had not thought himself much affected by Dark, aside from his concern for Susan and those he cares about who were facing their own struggles during the month; it's something of a surprise to find that his relief is also deep-set, for himself. There is a strange kind of hope that he doesn't recall feeling before, in anticipation of spring. He realizes that the pace will change, and that he is looking forward to spring and summer in this new place.
He's been considering whether he should move some of his things back to his own room. He has not stayed the night there since Susan asked him to stay with her during Dark, and he is happy to admit that this arrangement has been deeply pleasant. Lancelot has never experienced something so ... domestic as this. (He so rarely was able to wake up next to Guinever, that the first few times he woke up next to Susan after they began seeing each other, it felt like a very deep intimacy.) He doesn't, however, want to presume anything -- he knows Susan has appreciated having him close, he knows their relationship has grown deeper, but he isn't sure whether she wants him to stay with her at night on a more permanent basis. He suspects she might want her own space back, once she's recovered her equilibrium.
As ever, he has maintained his routine. He has also seen the invitation to Dionysus' party. It's this that was on his mind as he set out for the training yard this morning -- it was brisk and cold, but not so much the punishing cold of deep Dark -- and this he let himself idly consider while making his way through drills. (Thinking about it during drilling helps, because thinking about it otherwise has made him feel anxious -- he will never know what he ought to wear, or what to expect.)
By the time he has finished, he knows that there are several subjects that he needs to discuss with Susan when they meet for lunch.
He's been considering whether he should move some of his things back to his own room. He has not stayed the night there since Susan asked him to stay with her during Dark, and he is happy to admit that this arrangement has been deeply pleasant. Lancelot has never experienced something so ... domestic as this. (He so rarely was able to wake up next to Guinever, that the first few times he woke up next to Susan after they began seeing each other, it felt like a very deep intimacy.) He doesn't, however, want to presume anything -- he knows Susan has appreciated having him close, he knows their relationship has grown deeper, but he isn't sure whether she wants him to stay with her at night on a more permanent basis. He suspects she might want her own space back, once she's recovered her equilibrium.
As ever, he has maintained his routine. He has also seen the invitation to Dionysus' party. It's this that was on his mind as he set out for the training yard this morning -- it was brisk and cold, but not so much the punishing cold of deep Dark -- and this he let himself idly consider while making his way through drills. (Thinking about it during drilling helps, because thinking about it otherwise has made him feel anxious -- he will never know what he ought to wear, or what to expect.)
By the time he has finished, he knows that there are several subjects that he needs to discuss with Susan when they meet for lunch.
[Closed Post] ..stuttering to a stop..
Mar. 26th, 2024 08:02 pmBy the time he feels he's done all he can for Magnus, Lancelot is the kind of wired that feels more wrung out, adrift and spread thin. He is cold -- this should be obvious, outdoors in this weather with no shirt or cloak -- and it feels like it's coming for the very center of him, which is probably accurate. The dagger in his boot is rubbing the wrong way so he pauses to remove it, and then points himself at the mansion and makes himself walk as quickly as he can.
He isn't thinking. For the most part, since he found Magnus in a pool of his own blood this morning, he has not thought of anything except what was right in front of him. He has no idea what time it is, or how long it's been since that moment. (He had forgotten, he supposes, what it can be like on the other side of what one cannot help recognize as a life-and-death situation, when you finally start to understand that the feeling of boundless energy is not real. But he puts that aside. He can't stop yet, so he refuses to feel any of that.)
It's warm as he comes in by the side door, but he doesn't let himself feel that either; he doesn't have much further to go. Before he's consciously aware that that's where he is heading, he is knocking on Susan's door.
He isn't thinking. For the most part, since he found Magnus in a pool of his own blood this morning, he has not thought of anything except what was right in front of him. He has no idea what time it is, or how long it's been since that moment. (He had forgotten, he supposes, what it can be like on the other side of what one cannot help recognize as a life-and-death situation, when you finally start to understand that the feeling of boundless energy is not real. But he puts that aside. He can't stop yet, so he refuses to feel any of that.)
It's warm as he comes in by the side door, but he doesn't let himself feel that either; he doesn't have much further to go. Before he's consciously aware that that's where he is heading, he is knocking on Susan's door.
He doesn't really mean to, but Lancelot keeps to his rooms for a time in the wake of the latest mansion upheaval. He doesn't disappear for days, and he mostly keeps his routines -- he does spend a little more time riding -- but he is subdued and not idly floating about for socializing.
It could have been worse. He knows this. He knows, too, that no one did this on purpose; he's grateful for Susan and Nightingale's understanding. But none of that makes it easier to regain his emotional balance. Much like that day (which felt very long), he is still grappling occasionally with that sensation of being... just outside of himself, a step removed, dizzy and longing to be even further away.
Still, he does not want to punish Susan and he knows they should talk. So this morning after he puts up Rivelin, he goes to find Susan, wherever she might be.
It could have been worse. He knows this. He knows, too, that no one did this on purpose; he's grateful for Susan and Nightingale's understanding. But none of that makes it easier to regain his emotional balance. Much like that day (which felt very long), he is still grappling occasionally with that sensation of being... just outside of himself, a step removed, dizzy and longing to be even further away.
Still, he does not want to punish Susan and he knows they should talk. So this morning after he puts up Rivelin, he goes to find Susan, wherever she might be.
[Closed Post] ..late morning, and snow..
Jan. 25th, 2024 04:09 pmThe morning after Wanderers Gather, Lancelot actually permits himself to sleep a little late and to skip his morning drills. This is sensible, he reasons, because he did have rather more mulled wine last night than he intended -- not that he has regrets. It was a lovely night, and a joyous one, and if he were to have any regret it would be that he did not spend as much of it in Susan's company as he might have preferred. But he did socialize with more folk than he usually would; all in all, he is feeling rather good this morning even if he does have a little headache.
He eats his breakfast, as usual, and then takes a walk. It's cold, today, and last night's snow seems to have stuck, though there isn't as much of it as he might have expected. It makes him glad for the new rug in his room. He makes his way to the stable to look in on the gelding -- in spite of everything, he has not been able to bring himself to give the horse a name -- and ensure that both horses have blankets. (He knows, of course, that Sagramore is on top of this, but it feels good to check all the same.)
Eventually he heads back to the mansion in search of coffee. He leaves his cloak in his room and heads to the café, thinking idly about how he might spend the afternoon. Reading, perhaps, or perhaps he can find Susan before lunch and make some other plan.
He eats his breakfast, as usual, and then takes a walk. It's cold, today, and last night's snow seems to have stuck, though there isn't as much of it as he might have expected. It makes him glad for the new rug in his room. He makes his way to the stable to look in on the gelding -- in spite of everything, he has not been able to bring himself to give the horse a name -- and ensure that both horses have blankets. (He knows, of course, that Sagramore is on top of this, but it feels good to check all the same.)
Eventually he heads back to the mansion in search of coffee. He leaves his cloak in his room and heads to the café, thinking idly about how he might spend the afternoon. Reading, perhaps, or perhaps he can find Susan before lunch and make some other plan.
Lancelot is in a very good mood indeed. He feels settled, assured. He feels as he did, he thinks, back when he first found his feet at court -- he is someplace he belongs, he can be assured that people will treat him with respect, if not kindness or welcoming. He lets himself revel in it, a little, as it's been a long while since he felt anywhere near as nice as this.
The weather is good: sunny, crisp, the familiar feeling of autumn as winter is hovering close by. He goes to his own room and fetches his sword. He runs his usual drills, though with a kind of ease and almost carelessness he hasn't had since he was young. (Perhaps he is young enough, still. He can't be sure. He has already lived past the age his father was when he died, but that means almost nothing. His father died in battle and Lancelot is, now, no longer likely to ever see such a fate.)
Afterwards, he showers and decides he might as well find breakfast. So he's now heading toward one of the kitchens, looking cheerful for once.
The weather is good: sunny, crisp, the familiar feeling of autumn as winter is hovering close by. He goes to his own room and fetches his sword. He runs his usual drills, though with a kind of ease and almost carelessness he hasn't had since he was young. (Perhaps he is young enough, still. He can't be sure. He has already lived past the age his father was when he died, but that means almost nothing. His father died in battle and Lancelot is, now, no longer likely to ever see such a fate.)
Afterwards, he showers and decides he might as well find breakfast. So he's now heading toward one of the kitchens, looking cheerful for once.
