"I have," Lancelot says, although there's a hint of discomfort now. "Although my memories are still... hazy. Enough there that I have a sense, yet... low on detail."

He shrugs, sets down his drink again after a moment and lowers his eyes to his food. It's something he feels peculiarly self-conscious about, and Lancelot is at somewhat of a loss for exactly why. It's just an awkward, vulnerable sort feeling. Like a raw nerve he's wary of irritating in case it hurts.