He blinks away as the guards announce Diarmuid, rubs at his face and offers him a rueful smile.

"This book," he admits, "is not the most riveting thing I have read of late. A little... dry, and it has already been a trying few months. Please --"

Lancelot closes the book and gestures to a chair, sets it aside as he finally shakes the dregs of exhaustion from himself.

"I hope it was not a bad time. Can I get you anything...?"