Lancelot sat at the barren table with a glass in his hand, the alcohol in it not even touched, the bottle practically full. He couldn't even bring himself to drown in his sorrows. Arthur did him a disservice by snatching him away from Morgan's, even she at least had been an old face and as broken as he was, it was the tiniest of comfort. Now he was wasting away in this empty house with nothing left to give him any peace or sense of joy. That was twice now that he'd struck out and was left alone. Now, even Morgan herself didn't wish to keep him---he'd more than lost his way, he had nothing left to follow.
The knock on his door was quite unexpected. It quite possibly was Arthur checking in, and there was nothing for his King to do but sit and watch him. Lancelot wasn't the conversationalist, there wasn't anything to discuss, and topics like how was the weather were so overdone.
After a few moments staring into that glass that knock came again, this time a little heavier and he groaned with a sigh. He got up to open the door, wishing beyond all hope that Andromeda had come back, Guinevere or even Morgan (why that woman didn't just cast her spells already was beyond him). There stood that aged sorcerer. "Did Arthur send you?" He asked in that gravely voice, letting the door stay open and walked back to his empty table. "Here to cast me out of my misery, old man? Exile me?" Lancelot had already exiled himself, this was no life, not even for an immortal.