Lancelot's touch lingers, as does the feeling within Faolan. The same feeling as he had, all that time ago, with Ana. Crossing a river, holding her close, singing her a song. That was how it had all begun with her. Faolan and Lancelot have already been through so much more than that. The kidnapping of Lady, the vanquishing of Reynard. The hunting of the Hart. The journey to the Pyrii. Faolan's death. Lancelot had brought him back. They had been through battle together, they had fought the Jabberwock together. Faolan had been nursed and cared for by the other man, Lancelot has shared his quarters with him for the last few months. He has shared with him his past. He has helped watch over Lancelot himself for over four turnings of the moon, and over Bridei for half that long. They have shared so much more than the mere days that he and Ana had known each other, before he'd given away his heart, despite himself. With the similarities between them. With the way that they both believed in him, both want better for him, perhaps better than Faolan should desire himself. He should have known. He should have seen this coming. Its his own fault that he hadn't caught it and quenched this flame before now, when it's far too late for that.

Faolan watches Lancelot smile at him, listening as he laughs, listening as his voice drops soft and low, watching as he smiles at him. Feeling those emotions within him swell and cement themselves in the face of it. In the face of that damned harp music. "I should hope," Faolan counters, as wryly as he can, all things considered, "that in the end I should amount to at least a little more than that..." Not that he minds watching over Lady and Bridei, of course. But his place, he has always felt, is at Lancelot's side, whether it is on a mission, on the battlefield, or in a meeting room. Gods, to hear himself think that now...