onthewillowsthere | [semi-open post -- easter sunday]

Current Mood: blank

Entry tags:

[semi-open post -- easter sunday]

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]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Knowing the painfulness of that hope, Claudius can't deny it -- a part of him even shares it. If God were truly forgiving, then He would also be humble. All the same, he wishes he could guard Galahad from every vision, that he could stand at the door of the divinity and say your son doesn't want to hear from you, unless you're here to say sorry. He wants to cross his arms before the Almighty and archly ask, shall I take a message?

He closes his eyes across from Galahad's, mirroring him. He holds on to that moment of shared feeling.

It's easier to bear than it would have been, even a few months ago -- the pain and despair of a perfect God's imperfect love isn't something he faces alone. Claudius understands, and that understanding is like a balm.

He sits quietly with the pain and the understanding. It's better than feeling nothing but despair. It draws him back to his body, and he finds his body something he can bear to inhabit again.

"I still choose thee," he says. "I choose thy love, not His. Thou art how I want to be loved."

And Claudius has felt so frail, so full of fear of loss, as if his skin might split and burst from it, like over-ripe fruit left to sit in the sun -- he could weep from this, he thinks. It would be the second time this Dark he's wept uncontrollably on a man he loves. He laughs, to keep the tears from coming. "Didst thou know how much I longed to hear thee say that? I did not, until thou hadst oped thy lips." Softer, he says, "I will cherish those words. As I cherish loving thee."

"I didn't know how it felt before thee. To be cherished. Thou makest me feel it always. Thou-- I see how thou lookst at me, and-- how thou rememberest what I like. And how thou likest me as I am. I'm glad to be thy kindred soul. I'll always choose thee."

Claudius thinks of that silly liquor cabinet, and it makes him laugh again, less forced. He thinks of the intimate notes he'd made in his dossier, and it doesn't ache as much as he feared it would. He thinks of the shelves rearranged in his workshop, when he realized his instinct to keep his tools tucked away and hidden wasn't conducive to sharing them, or the way his partner's mind works.

It pleases him to pay attention to the people he loves, and use that knowledge for them, in little ways. When Gertrude didn't stop spending time with him in the garden, he started to plant bulbs for her, flowers that reminded her of home. But it never seemed like enough. "Dost know," he says, "I've always felt my love meant little. Like it was a poor and paltry gift compared to the love of a king or a god. But thou deserv'st to be cherished, and seeing thy desert ... the gifts I have feel richer. They're the jewels I'd have thee always adorned in. The ones whose shine suits the light of thine eyes."

Galahad kisses him. It's not without heat, but that's not the point of it. He doesn't know how to say how much he loves Claudius in this moment, or how grateful he is, or how cherished he truly feels -- he wishes for a split-second that he had Laertes' gift for words, or Claudius' own, but that longing is quickly forgotten as he kisses Claudius' beloved mouth and drags his precious body close, as close as he can, as if he could truly make them one body just through the fierceness of his love. They don't need sex to be one flesh. He is already Claudius' in every way he can be; he is Claudius', and Claudius is his, to love and guard and comfort and listen and study and taste.

"Thou art the jewels," he says, when he finally draws back to let Claudius breathe. "Thy love is the adornment. I am clothed in thee."

Claudius's breath comes a little short, after that kissed. He feels claimed in a way that's deeper than flesh, a way that pulls on the core of him. "When I find jewels that suit thee," he says, smiling close flirting, "I want them to belong to thee. Wilt thou have me belong to thee?""

"Yes. Thou art my betrothed. Thou art my bride. Thou art mine."

"Thy bride," Claudius repeats, a delighted flush creeping up his neck.

Oh. He notices. He can't not notice; he's dedicated the greater part of his new life to it, to all these beautiful subtleties. "Yes," he says again, more firmly. He wants that flush to spread and deepen. "Thou saidst thou couldst imagine thyself the divine androgyne. I would have thee so."

Claudius shudders. If properly teased, he would admit he had certain dreams about his wedding day and wedding night would go, even if he was prepared for contingencies -- and still if he shudders, as though the idea were entirely new. "And thou wouldst take me so? Accept me, and -- enjoy me, as thy bride."

"Yes," softly, still perfectly serious. He places his hand flat on Claudius' chest, over his heart. "I will take thee, and take pleasure of thee."

That flush on his neck spreads, licking up like a candle-flame. “Thou sound’st so certain,” he says, smiling. “I like it in thee. Wilt thou help me with something?”

That goes without saying, but he says it anyway, firmly, because he thinks Claudius will like it. "Yes. With anything."

"I want thee to draw our heraldry." He makes the sign flower-dragon.

"Yes." Galahad echoes it, almost reflexively.

"I want to have it on our betrothal announcements," he says fondly, stroking Galahad's hair. "Thou hast such an eye in thy art. And more and more, I feel, thou hast drawn with symbols to express what's in thy heart, not merely what thou see'st. Hast thou been praised yet for that skill?"

"Only by thee." He thinks again of his desire to make Claudius a signet ring with their heraldry as well. He can do both -- working out the design on paper will make it easier to make the ring. His blue eyes close, savoring the feeling of Claudius' fingers in his hair.

"Thou shouldst be praised," Claudius says, all too pleased to do the praising. "This is thy skill. The skill thou hast honed for thyself, in practice. A skill that lets others see the world as thou dost, whether in the shadow rendered on a cheek, or in thy tender blasphemies -- they show me how thou wouldst saint thy friends, if sainthood weren't God's alone to give. Sometimes I wonder if thou know'st it. That thy art speaks with a voice, thy voice, and every sketch I hear it more clearly. I love it as I love thee."

He likes being told when he's done something well, something he had to work for, but he especially loves it from Claudius, whose rolling way of speaking makes every praise feel like the poetry of a canticle. It warms him to listen, and he inclines his head to Claudius' shoulder. "I want to draw thee on our wedding day. And night. I want to keep the image of thee forever."

"Then thou shalt," Claudius says, easily decided. "Anything thou wishest for our wedding day. And for the night, well," with a little smile, taking Galahad's hand in his, "I'll wear whatever thou wishest to see me in. I know thou hast fine taste."

A slight, answering smile, just for a moment. "If I wish to see thee in nothing?"

Claudius could lay his whole heart down for that smile. He already has. "Then so thou shalt have me. And I promise thee," he teases, "thou canst have me however it pleases thee. As a model for thy art, or any other way it pleases thee to use me."

"Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence: and likewise also the wife unto the husband." He brushes Claudius' lips with his thumb.

Claudius tilts his head to kiss the pad of Galahad's thumb, and smiles. "The wife hath not the power of her own body, but the husband. Wilt thou take thy power o'er me?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject