my name is

My name is Lancelot. Lancelot du Luc.


What is more important -- a dead marriage or a living love? You never chose private happiness over public duty, you asked only that happiness be there -- a view from the window, a crack in the easing -- that sometimes you could ease yourself out.

I can hold you up with one hand, but you can balance me on your fingertips. Last night, angry, you split my lip with your fists, then wept over a scar from a boar.

I am not wounded unless you wound me.

I am not strong unless you are my strength.


Her name is Guinevere.