He has one of those moments, where he worries he might slip sideways -- just the question on its own brings up a rush, a surge of emotions, none of which he can grasp. He thinks, given when he was at Corbenic, how long he was at court before he came here, and how long he has been here, that Galahad must, in his own time, be there. A baby, less than a year old. Smaller than Sunny. He can't even make himself imagine how small, what it might be like to see or hold him. It makes him dizzy to even think this far on it, to say nothing of the rest of the swirl of thoughts or wishes or... anything else.

Lancelot takes a little breath and forces himself to focus on Magnus, the array of ingredients, the kitchen. Here. He says, carefully simple, "Yes. I do."