towerofanimus | Glamour Failure

[When Arthur does find him, Lancelot has fallen to his knees. His hands hanging at his sides, his head hanging down as the nest of wires that was his hair hides his face-- he looks a man awaiting his own execution.

The senses he has belong to the man he once was, not the Servant he is no longer, and he cannot Feel Arthur's approach-- but he does hear approaching steps. If he but could, he would disappear-- for he feels already insubstantial enough, a broken man once more.

His voice when he speaks sounds hollow to his ears. The distant croaking of carrion crows.

Leave me.

I refuse.

[It hurts, seeing him like this. Broken, defeated. For the first time since this happened, she questions if this truly was the right thing, she questions if going against the Administrators in such a manner was the right path.

She kneels before him. And she had thought being summoned as a Servant the first time had been the strangest, most unearthly experience of her life. No, this, seeing Lancelot in such a state, only the shade of a man with his soul shining brightly from within, has to be it. Seeing the man she had--and still--gladly called her friend so broken is what makes her question her judgement.

And yet....]

I will not leave you alone like this. Not again. Not when this is partially my doing. If you need to be upset at someone then hate me for it.

Arthur...

[He shakes his head, looking more an old dog than-- anything else he has ever appeared to be.
Any glamour of his own.

The Words she speaks filter through his mind and he answers them simply, bluntly.

Hate you-- I cannot sense you.

[He raises his head and looks into his once-King's blank and glowing face, knowing that he appears equally alien.]
I cannot feel Arthur, I cannot feel-- my Master, my Self, my Sword, my-- I am.
Naked. In the Dark. Nothing remains-- of Lancelot.

Not even his Madness.

[The rough shape of his hand trembles in the air, barely outstretched, a silent plea. Do not leave me...]

[She takes his hand, does more than that. She draws him to her as she has only ever done for Guinevere, guides his head to rest on his shoulder. It's strange to hold him like this as it is strange and awkward for her to hold anyone, but this is Lancelot. When she speaks it is into what had once been his hair.]

I can feel you now. Though it is an artificial body I can still feel you. And how can you say nothing remains when your soul is shining brightly before me?

Do you truly believe that being a Servant, that being a being a magic is all you are? That that is all you are good for?

My Soul...

[There is no subtlety left in Lancelot. He answers like a Child.]
A Weapon is what I am. A Tool fashioned for Service and Glory.

That is what I ever have been. What else should I be?

[In Arthur's embrace he should feel some overwhelming emotion. He longs for the tide of it.
But it is a simple, human gesture, with only simple, human feeling behind it. No supernatural connection.
Yet he stays within it. The tide does not come, but a kind of calm comes in its place.

He sighs against Her shoulder.]

Is that why you believed I chose you for the Round Table?

[She had never meant her knights to be solely tools of war, but examples of how to live. Beacons of hope shining for all to see that if you had the strength then that strength should be put to good use for the betterment of all.

It made her wonder: did all her knights think the same thing? Did they all see themselves as nothing more than tools?]

Is that the reason you believed I called you the greatest among my knights?

Lancelot, I chose you because you were skilled without even magic and because I could see you were a good man. You have never been "just" a tool. You were a friend, and a lover, and a hero. Perhaps the closest friend I had back in those days.

[She knows this is sore cord to strike, but she has to. Arturia had not been there for her country when it had needed her most, had not been there for her lover when he needed her most, had not been there for her own wife when she had been needed most.

If ever there was a time when Lancelot needed her, it is now, and she refuses to let go of him, her hold on him only tightening. Some part of her thinks wildly that the tighter she grasps on to him, then perhaps she won't lose him to madness yet again.]

Do you believe Guinevere would have fallen in love with you if all you had ever been was a tool of war? Do you think I would have approved of your match if you had been nothing more than that?

[At Guinevere's name, he sighs. Always there is this. But as he is now, he feels it differently.
A stirring below the surface of black water at the bottom of a disused well.

He rests against Arthur as if she is his Rock, which after all, she was. Once Upon a Time. Or Long Ago and Far Away.
Either will do.]

I cannot remember.
Or if I can, perhaps I would rather Hide within my Madness like a Coward-- than truly feel the span of my Fall.

Like this, as I am, it is all I am able to Feel.

Forgive me, Arthur.
[For all he knows they are only Constructs, separated by Time and many Wrongs, this Arthur feels real enough, actual enough to hear the Words he has never spoken to her before.]

Always.

[She would always forgive him. In her eyes he had done nothing wrong. Arturia could not love Guinevere as she desired to be love and she did not have the heart to pretend to it. The only exception would've been if Guinevere had asked it of her and yet she never did.]

I will always forgive you, Lancelot.

[Especially since, in her mind's eye, he had given Guinevere what she could not and gladly. The only thing about their affair itself that had hurt her was not being told of it and even then she understood.]

If anything, I am sorry. If I had known it would come to this then.... perhaps. I would have found another way.

[If she had known this would break Lancelot so, she would not have asked this of him. As it is, there is no changing the past. Arturia learned that the hardest way of all. She can only hope what she and the rest of their little band had done will ultimately result in the greater good.

She won't ask for forgiveness. She doesn't deserve it.]

I was willing, Arthur. You did not force my Hand.
[Not at this Time, and not in this Place.]

Perhaps there is no other Way but to play this Game until it is done.
[So long as his eyes are closed, he does at least feel Arthur's reality-- no matter that the reality of a Heroic Spirit is a construct itself.
Lancelot straightens in Arthur's embrace, but does not break it.]

But I can be no help to anyone, as I am.
Not even to the Master I cannot sense, not even to you.

Do not speak like that. What is it about now that means you cannot be of help to anyone? Because you no longer have access to magic now? Because you are a soul and not a Servant? You still have a body to wield a sword in, Lancelot, and your mind is perfectly sane at the moment.

[How does she explain this? She chose him based on skill, not because of magic. Though she supposes that any mage stripped of magic would feel the same way. If she had not experienced being without her own magic before in this Tower, she would probably feel completely useless as well right now.]

The monsters here are still real. The people look different, but still need protecting. If you wish to help your Master you can arm yourself and defend him and others. We do not know if we can still be brought back while in this state which means they could be in very real danger right now.

[The loss of the Link between himself and his Master pains him-- only now does he wonder if it pains his Master also.

Arthur has given a Command. And in spite of a Darkness lurking at the back of his mind, he vows to do as she says-- to not speak so, though it is his firm feeling that he is fairly useless as he is. He sighs.]

I feel more unmoored, Arthur, than I would wish. Madness has its attractions, I assure you.
Even if I should wish to aid my Master or any Others-- no, I do wish to, though-- it is no matter.

As you say, I should seek my Master. Unless you would have me accompany you. Swordless as I am.

Go to him. [Because she knows action is the one thing that will convince Lancelot more than words will. She releases him and draws back.]

He is probably just as confused as the rest of us. No one expected this to happen.

So go to him. I shall find you later one and see if you need my aid.

I-- [It is only with effort that he stops himself clinging to Arthur. She is ever the constant in his Life-- or Death, as the case may be.
When he does draw back, he draws himself up from his knees to his full height.] --very well then. I pray it is not as you say, but yes-- I should go to him. However I may.

Seek me when you will, Arthur. I will await your Return.
[As do all who loved Britain.]

Glamour Failure

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