[The note he reads over quickly, his brow troubled. Plainly, to Lancelot's eyes, a lover's misunderstanding. Cu Chulainn obviously feels unworthy, as well he should, but he should not hurt Diarmuid by questioning the wisdom or quality of his feelings.

He returns the note to the table, raising his hand to thread his fingers through Diarmuid's hair afterwards.]

Say not so. One need not set eyes upon your face, nor be your Hero, to love you truly, Diarmuid. You reproach yourself when you have no fault. It is not selfish to want such a thing for yourself. You are no fool.

I am sure in time that this will be mended between you. Cu Chulainn loves you well, no matter his manner.

True love is a rare thing, Diarmuid. Its fate can seem as cruel to those with no curse upon them as it is to you. Indeed, those most worthy of love are seldom made happy by it.

[Lancelot rises to seat himself on the edge of Diarmuid's bed, resting a hand on the man's chest, above his heart.]

You are overtired. Be easy, I will watch while you sleep.