[interlude -- caritas]
Dec. 4th, 2023 10:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onthewillowsthereThroughout Advent, Claudius will regularly find a folded note tucked into his pocket of his jacket or pants, though the content varies:
One day it's a verse from Proverbs in Galahad's neat Latin, let thine heart keep my commandments.
One day it's a careful sketch of Galahad's own throat, done in the mirror: the line of his jaw, the delicate swell of his Adam's apple, the hollows at the base and where his shoulders meet with the column of his neck.
One day it's just a reminder, thou art good, and thou art mine.
They take time -- Galahad isn't clever with words even when he can speak easily; he doesn't have the wit for quips or banter. His sexts are deliberate, things he labors over until he thinks Claudius will understand the meaning and not mistake him.
He's crafted a wreath of balsam and cedar for his candles, but he keeps it in Damien's old room, where he cuddled with Magnus after his faint. Claudius, he knows, is ill at ease with God -- that phrase doesn't capture the whole of it, but it's the simplest way to describe something that even Galahad hasn't heard every particular of. Another thing that Claudius has shielded him from, as if in deference to what he was. Galahad tries to do him the same courtesy, and so the Advent wreath stays out of their shared space.
He doesn't talk about his fast, but Claudius notices anyway, which he had expected. Claudius notices every change in him. He begins taking a meal with Galahad in the late afternoon which Galahad is certain he conjures entirely from the refrigerator (he doesn't cook, like Laertes does), but which he also knows is far more complete than what Claudius would eat alone. They eat at table, across from one another, and Claudius takes so long that everything on his plate goes cold, because he keeps stopping to tell Galahad about things.
Claudius has always seemed formidable to him, but after the attack by the walking corpses Galahad has begun to understand two things that are sides of each other, like a coin or a host: Claudius is formidable, and Claudius is also vulnerable.
Some fragments of Claudius' expressions and inflections have started to become readable to him. It reminds him of learning Latin as a child, and the pleasure of recognition when a word resolved and began to mean something over and over. Claudius is like that, and Galahad realizes that Percival must have been a mystery to him once too, so long ago that he doesn't remember it; he must have stared at Percival's smiles once and longed to understand exactly what they meant, and yet by the time they were parted he knew every subtlety. Someday he might understand Claudius that well too. He's already worked out that sometimes when Claudius speaks highly of one of his friends there's something doubtful in it: Claudius doesn't know whether his respect is matched, and he wants it to be. He wants the people he esteems to esteem him.
Claudius speaks about himself as though he's very proud, and he is proud, but he also cares very little for himself. He stays awake late into the night and only sleeps a few hours; he rotates a thousand ideas at the same time and sometimes they strain the seams of his mind like an overfilled sack of grain. He doesn't eat properly. He can be airy and full of energy, eager to start every new venture, and then suddenly weary of everything. Galahad's despair is transparent (it feels simple: most of the time, he wishes everything would stop). Claudius is subtle, ever-changing, but sometimes Galahad looks at him and feels as if he's looking at his mirror. Sometimes he feels helpless in the face of it.
But among all the gifts Claudius has given him, there's one that is of immeasurable worth: Command me and care for me and keep me as thine own.
Commands are easy. He only has to pay attention, and he's always paying attention to Claudius.
So he says, "Come here," when he wants Claudius to go to bed, and cozies into his arms, letting Claudius hold him. "Drink," when he wants Claudius to take water, and "Eat," if he brings him food. He can order him into the bath, or order him to hold out his hands for lotion, or order him to stop and be cared for -- and it's always a fearsome joy in him to hold that power and know that Claudius has given it to him. He should be afraid of it, he thinks, but he isn't. I am the supreme and fiery force who sets all living sparks alight and breathes forth no mortal things, but judges them as they are. I blaze above the beauty of the fields, I shine in the waters, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars. He is the vision of Divine Love. He is the fire in his chest and under his skin, he is holy still.
(Would it have felt like this, he wonders sometimes, to have healed the Fisher King? Would he have felt powerful finally, when being wielded for his purpose, or has it always been true that he wanted to be the hand that wields? Was that something he knew and buried deep within him, along with all his desire, or was he so entirely broken to the path God chose for him that he never understood himself? --It doesn't matter.)
It doesn't matter. What matters is that Claudius is his, and the power he has over him is care.
There's no way to be sure Claudius will find the notes at Sext, but Galahad always checks his watch anyway. He rubs the braided band against the pad of his thumb and thinks of Claudius, his half-translated face that Galahad will someday understand entirely. He loves the way the silver shines against his skin, loves the tiny hands that tick by the minutes, loves the intricacy of time. He loves that Claudius thought to give it to him. He loves Claudius.
He keeps his fast and marks the days and crafts his notes with all the care he holds for Claudius. They're a gift for Claudius, to let him know that Galahad loves and desires him, even when he can't act on that desire. It feels safe to share this with him. Claudius can do whatever he wants with the sexts (and though he can barely admit it in the privacy of his own mind, Galahad wants him to be stirred by them. He wants Claudius to think of them when he touches himself, or be moved to desire in the first place. He wants them to be a part of Claudius' vulnerability), and Galahad can control the chancel-lamp in his chest and keep the flame from burning too hot.
For now, that suffices.
One day it's a verse from Proverbs in Galahad's neat Latin, let thine heart keep my commandments.
One day it's a careful sketch of Galahad's own throat, done in the mirror: the line of his jaw, the delicate swell of his Adam's apple, the hollows at the base and where his shoulders meet with the column of his neck.
One day it's just a reminder, thou art good, and thou art mine.
They take time -- Galahad isn't clever with words even when he can speak easily; he doesn't have the wit for quips or banter. His sexts are deliberate, things he labors over until he thinks Claudius will understand the meaning and not mistake him.
He's crafted a wreath of balsam and cedar for his candles, but he keeps it in Damien's old room, where he cuddled with Magnus after his faint. Claudius, he knows, is ill at ease with God -- that phrase doesn't capture the whole of it, but it's the simplest way to describe something that even Galahad hasn't heard every particular of. Another thing that Claudius has shielded him from, as if in deference to what he was. Galahad tries to do him the same courtesy, and so the Advent wreath stays out of their shared space.
He doesn't talk about his fast, but Claudius notices anyway, which he had expected. Claudius notices every change in him. He begins taking a meal with Galahad in the late afternoon which Galahad is certain he conjures entirely from the refrigerator (he doesn't cook, like Laertes does), but which he also knows is far more complete than what Claudius would eat alone. They eat at table, across from one another, and Claudius takes so long that everything on his plate goes cold, because he keeps stopping to tell Galahad about things.
Claudius has always seemed formidable to him, but after the attack by the walking corpses Galahad has begun to understand two things that are sides of each other, like a coin or a host: Claudius is formidable, and Claudius is also vulnerable.
Some fragments of Claudius' expressions and inflections have started to become readable to him. It reminds him of learning Latin as a child, and the pleasure of recognition when a word resolved and began to mean something over and over. Claudius is like that, and Galahad realizes that Percival must have been a mystery to him once too, so long ago that he doesn't remember it; he must have stared at Percival's smiles once and longed to understand exactly what they meant, and yet by the time they were parted he knew every subtlety. Someday he might understand Claudius that well too. He's already worked out that sometimes when Claudius speaks highly of one of his friends there's something doubtful in it: Claudius doesn't know whether his respect is matched, and he wants it to be. He wants the people he esteems to esteem him.
Claudius speaks about himself as though he's very proud, and he is proud, but he also cares very little for himself. He stays awake late into the night and only sleeps a few hours; he rotates a thousand ideas at the same time and sometimes they strain the seams of his mind like an overfilled sack of grain. He doesn't eat properly. He can be airy and full of energy, eager to start every new venture, and then suddenly weary of everything. Galahad's despair is transparent (it feels simple: most of the time, he wishes everything would stop). Claudius is subtle, ever-changing, but sometimes Galahad looks at him and feels as if he's looking at his mirror. Sometimes he feels helpless in the face of it.
But among all the gifts Claudius has given him, there's one that is of immeasurable worth: Command me and care for me and keep me as thine own.
Commands are easy. He only has to pay attention, and he's always paying attention to Claudius.
So he says, "Come here," when he wants Claudius to go to bed, and cozies into his arms, letting Claudius hold him. "Drink," when he wants Claudius to take water, and "Eat," if he brings him food. He can order him into the bath, or order him to hold out his hands for lotion, or order him to stop and be cared for -- and it's always a fearsome joy in him to hold that power and know that Claudius has given it to him. He should be afraid of it, he thinks, but he isn't. I am the supreme and fiery force who sets all living sparks alight and breathes forth no mortal things, but judges them as they are. I blaze above the beauty of the fields, I shine in the waters, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars. He is the vision of Divine Love. He is the fire in his chest and under his skin, he is holy still.
(Would it have felt like this, he wonders sometimes, to have healed the Fisher King? Would he have felt powerful finally, when being wielded for his purpose, or has it always been true that he wanted to be the hand that wields? Was that something he knew and buried deep within him, along with all his desire, or was he so entirely broken to the path God chose for him that he never understood himself? --It doesn't matter.)
It doesn't matter. What matters is that Claudius is his, and the power he has over him is care.
There's no way to be sure Claudius will find the notes at Sext, but Galahad always checks his watch anyway. He rubs the braided band against the pad of his thumb and thinks of Claudius, his half-translated face that Galahad will someday understand entirely. He loves the way the silver shines against his skin, loves the tiny hands that tick by the minutes, loves the intricacy of time. He loves that Claudius thought to give it to him. He loves Claudius.
He keeps his fast and marks the days and crafts his notes with all the care he holds for Claudius. They're a gift for Claudius, to let him know that Galahad loves and desires him, even when he can't act on that desire. It feels safe to share this with him. Claudius can do whatever he wants with the sexts (and though he can barely admit it in the privacy of his own mind, Galahad wants him to be stirred by them. He wants Claudius to think of them when he touches himself, or be moved to desire in the first place. He wants them to be a part of Claudius' vulnerability), and Galahad can control the chancel-lamp in his chest and keep the flame from burning too hot.
For now, that suffices.
