Lancelot kept his eyes closed, lost in his memories - hands: cold hands, rough hands, unyeilding, uncaring; and pain: so much pain he could barely keep from begging - silent tears still leaving slowly from under his eyelids. Lost in shadows - he couldn't seem to find any light. He'd given up trying to keep them away. Futile - he hadn't been able to - so he'd just let them wash over him. And he lay still.