[semi-open post -- easter sunday]

[onthewillowsthere]

Christ is risen. He is risen, indeed. Alleluia.

Last night, Galahad kissed Claudius while he was reading and explained that he was going to keep the Easter Vigil, and Claudius tsked and fixed his collar, and then fixed his collar again, and then said Galahad should take a scarf -- he unfolded himself neatly from the bed, his dressing gown swirling about him, to take one of out of the closet. He knotted it around Galahad's neck, and kissed him, and then kissed him again, and then said in the morning they would have to eat something special to break the Lenten fast. Galahad knew he was worried, and he was grateful to Claudius for letting him go anyway.

Holy Week has been a crushing weight, hard in a way it's never been. Galahad doesn't know why, but he knows Claudius can tell; Claudius knows him better than anyone. Galahad has been reminding himself that it will change on Easter. That's what the miracle is about.

With no chapel to keep his vigil in, Galahad took the thick wax pillar he'd chosen for his Paschal Candle outside to the lake. He should have asked Magnus to come with him -- he knows that. Magnus wouldn't mind, and he would have kept Galahad warm, too, and been glad he'd been asked. But after his Good Friday vision, Galahad has felt so detached from his body that remembering to do anything outside of the strict soothing rituals of Holy Week is a struggle. He shivered through the night alone, thinking about the past Easter Vigils he and Percival kept in Camelot, huddled around their bonfire, laughing when they were supposed to be serious, knowing the priest was scowling at them.

The Lucernarium is supposed to be joyful, hopeful, but the hour for Matins ticks by -- Galahad checks his watch by starlight, because both moons are new, and there's hardly any light in the sky -- and dawn doesn't come. He reminds himself that it's because it's winter, and daylight takes a long time to break across the horizon.

By eight-thirty there's finally a hint of sunlight, wan and wobbly as Magnus in the greenhouse on Passion Sunday. Galahad's hands are so cold he can hardly feel them, and they shake on the matches, but he lights the Paschal Candle and cradles it against his chest as he goes back to the mansion.

In Camelot, he would have followed the procession into the church for the Lumen Christi. This morning he does it alone. When he gets to his chapel-room, he unveils his altar and sets the candle down, then lights the votives from it, until the room is bathed in weak candlelight. He sings the Exultet to himself, softly, both parts. There's no assembly to give it power.

Galahad knows the Liturgy of the Word by heart. He's always been able to remember written words with little study, especially when they're important to him. He can recite all seven scripture readings and all of the psalms and canticles, the Gospel of the Resurrection.

In Camelot -- he can't keep thinking in Camelot; it only makes him feel more lost, less tethered. But in Camelot, there would be baptisms after the Liturgy. Then all the congregation would renew their baptismal vows, and be sprinkled with holy water. Galahad would stay stone-still as water freckled his face, hating the sensation, and Percival would laugh at him, and surreptitiously dry it off with his sleeve when no one was watching. The priest would give the Eucharist, and it was Easter.

In Camelot, there would be a great feast. Percival would get a little drunk; Galahad would sometimes forget to break his fast slowly, in increments, would be giddy from small beer on an empty stomach, and Percival could make him helpless with laughter. The stone was rolled back from the tomb. Everything in the world had more color. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

There's no Eucharist here. The Mass can't ever truly finish.

Galahad stays on his knees in front of the dresser-altar, watching the candles burn down, and waits to feel himself return to his body, but there's no return. He feels like a fish that can't be reeled in, thrashing in the stream. He feels like a threshed field. He feels like an empty tomb, with only the linens inside, because the Lord has been taken away, and he knows not where they have laid Him. He feels lost.

After hours of kneeling he manages to get up off the floor and slip into the bed, at least, but he doesn't manage to go any further. He's distantly aware that he's cold, that his head is aching with hunger, but those things are easy enough to ignore when he's so far from his body. He could be dead already.

When he was first restored to himself by the angel, he felt as though he were flour being ground under the weight of a millstone. It's an apt metaphor. He tries to remind himself that Claudius is waiting for him in their room, to end the fast together. He reminds himself that he is beloved, favored among men. There are good things ahead -- Easter heralds the beginning of a season of good things. But all he feels is tired and empty and spent.

[This post is open to people who already know galahad and might have a reason to know something is wrong]

Comments

[summerdude]

Look, okay. Magnus asked the questions about everything that happens with Easter -- though he didn't take great mental notes, given, you know, the whole nearly-dying thing, so over the past week he's asked a few more people, too, about their Easter traditions, and then he'd found a few books in the library to try and triangulate what it all probably meant for Galahad, since he couldn't articulate it that day in the greenhouse. And then he realized Galahad did say, but it just wasn't with words, and Magnus hadn't been paying enough attention (given his general distraction that day) to figure out exactly what he was communicating.

Galahad wanted to do Easter stuff on his own -- he mentioned something about a vigil when he mentioned that he wouldn't need Magnus to come to his room in the morning, since he wouldn't be there -- which was fine. It gave Magnus time to prepare something that acknowledges Easter is really important for him while also allowing for the fact that it has an entirely different meaning for Magnus. It's harder, since the house seems to be making less stuff? He wanted coconuts and fresh dates and maybe sago, since they all come from palm trees and they grow, and that seemed symbolic somehow, but all he can find is a box of the saddest, wrinkliest dry dates and a thing of coconut water. And no eggs to dye. So he takes the dates and the coconut water anyway, and makes a little IOU slip about the rest, and then takes another piece of paper and looks through the how-to-draw book Galahad got him all those months ago and draws him a silly picture of a bunny laying an egg into a basket, and he finds some rocks that look cool in the watery sunlight -- there's some crystals in some of them, from how they glint; maybe they can look them up together. The important thing is that they're roughly egg-shaped.

And then he goes to the little outdoor chapel he's already started trying to make, by his favorite oak tree just past camp. He probably can't keep it a secret from Galahad until it's done like he and Claudius are trying to do with Hanguang-jun's bamboo grove, because he doesn't know enough about christianity to make it right and this is something he can get wrong, but Alex has been helping him move stuff around and she's even offered up one or two limited memories from her own childhood. He can't find a bell, but he fixed some of the broken wind-chimes from the shed as a stop-gap, so right now it consists of wind chimes and some branches he's trying to encourage to grow into a cross (they're reluctant, since it's winter, but he's persistent). It looks terrible. He can tell Galahad about it later. But he does collect one of his earlier, failed attempts to grow the branches together, and puts it and everything else he's collected into a little basket. He hadn't grown up christian or anything, but he does remember how fun Easter baskets always were, anyway.

He can see the spot by the lake where Galahad maybe sat -- the half-frozen mud is churned up there -- but Galahad isn't there, and he's also not in his and Claudius's room, and when Magnus tracks down Claudius a little while later, Claudius seemed worried, like maybe he was looking for Galahad too.

It takes Magnus an embarrassing long time to think to check Galahad's old room. By the time he gets there, he's properly anxious, too. He knows Galahad has been struggling. Maybe he should have insisted on being included in stuff? To keep an eye on him? But maybe that would be bad, or convey things he doesn't want to convey? Frey, Spring-Dad, it's the start of your season back home, he better be in here, he half-prays, worrying at the handle of the basket as he pushes Galahad's old door open.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad hears the door open as if from a distance, and it reminds him of-- some other time when he lay in bed, unable to move, and was found. His heart hurts, but he's so far from his body that he doesn't have to feel it, not really. He doesn't move from where he's lying.

[summerdude]

Oh, okay, Galahad is here (thank gods) but he seems to be doing real bad, actually (fuck you, gods). Magnus sets the basket down at the foot of the bed, kicks off his shoes, and climbs up, slotting himself behind Galahad and wrapping an arm around his middle so he can give him a makeshift hug. "Hey," he says, tucking his chin over Galahad's shoulder. "Tough day?"

[onthewillowsthere]

The pressure of Magnus' arm around him, his warm body drawn close, makes Galahad notice how far he's gone. He feels as if he's looking down at himself from a distance, but it's still the closest he's come to actually going back into it.

He hears his own voice, from a distance, say, "Yes."

[summerdude]

"Wanna tell me about it?"

[onthewillowsthere]

Does he want to tell Magnus about it? He isn't sure. The idea of explaining, of trying to gather words and make someone else understand something, is exhausting. It takes him so long to think about it that he starts to wonder if he was going to say anything in the first place. Maybe he doesn't have to speak. Maybe it doesn't matter. He can just feel the pressure of Magnus and his warm body, like the spring that hasn't come.

[summerdude]

Magnus waits for a while, then asks, "Do you want a story?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He likes listening to Magnus talk, so he nods.

[summerdude]

"Any preferences?"

[wickedwit]

Claudius wakes feeling weary, but it's the weariness of working a little-used muscle, of having stretched to his capacity, and accepting can stretch no more. He would be content to have breakfast in bed with Galahad, then spend the day curled side by side and reading, on occasion reaching over to touch Galahad's soft hair. He would feel no shame in it. What shame would any creature have in resting when the earth tells them to rest? More and more, he believes the span of Dark isn't deliberate malice, but the passing of the seasons. Fields have to be left fallow, sometimes, for the sake of future harvests. It must be the same for magic cabinets.

But Galahad doesn't come. Claudius pulls himself out of bed, makes his tea with the smallest dose of flower extract, stares out the window where the skies are grey and trees still bare. More than ever, he wishes for a change of airs, another view on another landscape, the moons drifting above spore seas or the quiet groves of the Cloud Recesses, anything to expel this something-settled matter in his heart. It's what he used to do, whenever he suffered from heartache, when Gertrude encouraged him to make the most of the freedom he had. When they both believed it was a kindness, to keep each other at a distance.

He misses Gertrude more than he can say. He misses the days in the garden, when he was still young, and she'd sit beside him without caring about getting grass stains on her dress. He misses all the time they didn't have, when he was older, and they couldn't disappear into the greenery without creating further gossip.

He doesn't want to lose any more time. He finishes his tea, does his ablutions, dresses in layers and goes to find Galahad, so he can ask to hide away together.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad comes back to their rooms by None, and at least by now Magnus has made him drink and eat, and the dull throbbing ache in his head is lessened. His body and his soul are still separated, but he doesn't have to wonder whether he's dead; he knows he isn't.

The last time he'd come home he was struck by the joy of familiarity. Everything was in its place, all their same things, all the proof of a shared life together. This time he feels it like a kind of relief, even through his blankness. He's still cold from the night outside, and he wants to pull on one of Claudius' robes and curl up in their bed, and he realizes it matters that he can want something at all. He cares enough to want.

So he does what he wants. He undresses, and he slips on the robe, gathering it around himself. For a moment he does nothing else at all, just stands there, breathing in the smell of Claudius and the silky texture of the fabric.

[wickedwit]

Claudius spends the morning searching, looking into every public room, walking the grounds and greenhouse, even going as far as the lake where he watched the water ripple off into the distance, reflecting the grey sky. More and more, he remembers wrapping Galahad in his scarf, kissing him goodbye, and he wonders why he let Galahad go.

The house isn’t safe, if it ever was. A stray sword could cut him down, like Magnus; he could lose his memories again, but piece by piece, like Lan Wangji. But what could Claudius have done? Whatever could hurt Galahad, wherever he is, could hurt him just the same in Claudius’s arms.

It weighs him down, that helpless weariness. All he knows is he’s achingly lonely. All he knows is he wishes he had Galahad in his arms. If he’s hurt, they can be hurt together. They can tend each other’s wounds.

He returns to his room, feet sore, heart sick — until he sees Galahad curled up in his robe there. There has never been a more welcome sight.

[onthewillowsthere]

As soon as he hears the door open he turns, and sits up in bed and holds out his arms Claudius. He knows immediately, just from looking at his face, that Claudius has been as lost today as he has.

[wickedwit]

“Beloved …” Claudius doesn’t hesitate it. He comes to Galahad as soon as he can and he holds him, folding so naturally into Galahad’s arms. “Beloved, I missed thee.” It feels needy and foolish, saying it like that. They saw each other just last night. There are often days one of them wakes before the other, and they don’t have breakfast together. It’s not that long a time apart. But he has, he’s missed Galahad so.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I'm sorry," he says, folding Claudius against his chest. "I was lost. I'm here now."

[wickedwit]

"Always so eloquent," Claudius says, his voice too full of real emotion for it to be sardonic or a tease. Galahad had the eloquence to say what Claudius needs most to hear, simply and clearly. "Thy words are a balm to my heart. Thou art here now," he says back like a promise, "and thou art no longer lost. I have thee."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thou hast me," another echo. It feels as if all the scraps of him have been heaped together in the basket of Claudius' arms and in that basket been reshaped into new loaves and new fishes. He feels like a real thing again, somehow. If Easter is empty of all the peace and joy it should have brought, if there is no nourishment in it for him now, he can still be the nourishment for someone else. For the most important person.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji has not seen Galahad since the beginning of Dark. There are a thousand things weighing on him, unanswerable questions and the shifting shadows of the night, Magnus' safety and everyone else's besides that. He allowed himself a meal this morning, thin herbal soup that struck him with a homesickness he has not felt so acutely for months. Like a child, he longs for his uncle. Uncle always knows what to do.

For now, Magnus is well. Wei Ying is in one of his better moods, and Lan Wangji succumbed to the sweet distraction of his hands and mouth after that single meal. He found no one in obvious distress as he walked the halls of the mansion in the afternoon. When Lan Wangji stopped to speak with Claudius, the offhanded way he mentioned not having seen Galahad all day let Lan Wangji know that he was worried. He resolves to find him.

When the mansion is cooperative, Lan Wangji knows where most of its residents choose to sleep. Galahad shares Claudius' quarters now, but he did not always. The mansion is not, in fact, cooperative these days. Lan Wangji is stubborn. He walks, as long as it takes, until he finds the door that once belonged to Damien. He knocks, but only to announce his presence in case there is an occupant; he pushes open the door and enters regardless.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad turns, and even that is better than what he managed the last few times he's been found like this.

[lightbearinglord]

There he is. Lan Wangji looks at him, and then he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. He kneels beside the bed. "Galahad."

[onthewillowsthere]

He looks blankly at Lan Wangji. He's so tired and distant.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji looks back at him, level and quiet. He tries to think of what his brother said to him. He tries to think of what he wanted his brother to say to him. "Can you speak?"

[onthewillowsthere]

A long, painful silence, and then, "Yes." It feels pulled from him, as if by a thread.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji nods, a tiny gesture. He is compelled to match Galahad's stillness, to speak in a low voice. "Do you need food or drink?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He thinks. The last time he ate was the night before, in the evening, with Claudius-- he dredges up the memory. Only bread and water for Galahad, but he and Claudius had cooked something together even with the meager supplies. He doesn't remember.

"...Yes," he says at last.