[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

[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.

[wickedwit]

Of all the times he's fallen in love, Claudius wonders whether he's ever loved quite like this. All his old relationships were based on exchanges, and he's carried those expectations into his new ones. If nothing else, he always feels like he has to wait his turn with his emotions, either taking care of and being taken care by. Right now, he draws all the comfort he can from Galahad, while giving back as much as he can, with the fierce surety of the embrace. Even if Galahad drifts for a while, right now he's anchored here, in Claudius's arms, and Claudius isn't letting him go. They're home right now, their home is with each other.

[onthewillowsthere]

Distantly, he does think: I should have come back sooner. Maybe it's foolish to have put his chapel in another room, as far away from Claudius as possible. Maybe Claudius would tolerate it if Galahad has asked him to bear the votives and the icons, and then he could have been here the whole time. Later, he thinks. He'll ask later if it's all right.

For now speech is still hard to gather up. He doesn't feel as faraway as he did, but he's exhausted. He needs to eat more. At least the fast is over, and he can make sure they both eat often. He can retrain his body to take food, small meal after small meal, until everything is the way it should be. He can take care of both of them in all the ways he knows how to take care of someone else.

That shakes loose the memory of his vision of Percival, and without meaning to he starts to cry. He's used to crying noiselessly, uncomfortable tears streaking down his face in silence, but this time is different. He weeps like a tired child into Claudius' hair, rocking them both.

[wickedwit]

"I have thee," Claudius repeats, stroking circles into Galahad's back, letting him weep all he needs. He's allowed.

[onthewillowsthere]

It takes a long time, longer than he expected, for it to pass through him.

He wants to tell Claudius everything -- about the visions, about the weight of Dark, about how he'd expected Easter to come with the relief of spring. He will tell him. But first, he dries his eyes on the sleeve of his robe and asks, "Art thou all right?"

[wickedwit]

There's a flickering smile, which goes out quickly. "My heart is exceeding heavy," he says. "I feel as though there is a great storm about me, from which I can only take shelter. Wilt thou shelter with me?"

[onthewillowsthere]

With his strength, it's nothing to lift Claudius and gather him closer, to settle him more securely in his lap, against his chest. "What happened?"

[wickedwit]

"So many things." He tucks his head against Galahad's chin, letting himself be small and held there. "There's so much dread about this place. I've tried to shield thee, but I know not what to shield thee from -- I know not what I fear, except that I may lose thee. And I've courted one loss already. I may break with Sagramore, because I can't let go of what's past."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thou wilt not lose me," with quiet certainty. "I'm thine. What did Sagramore do?"

[wickedwit]

“Nothing,” Claudius says with a bitter, empty laugh. “He’s done no harm to me. But he’s intimate with a man who did, and knew it, never speaking of it. I saw them dance, holding each other like lovers — doubtlessly they already were. They were merry, and laughed, and I looked away …” Voice breaking, he says, “I bore it without thinking once. Now I remember, and each detail is a dagger in me.”

[onthewillowsthere]

Quietly, calmly, he asks, "How is that no harm to thee? Why shouldst thou let that go?" His voice is very flat, and his body is very still.

[wickedwit]

Claudius closes his eyes, and remembers with welling fondness what Magnus said, about Galahad asking good questions. “Thou ask’st me that, and not ‘why canst thou not let it go?’ That’s the question I’ve asked myself.” And the answer is the inverse. He can’t let it go because if he does, he’ll keep pulling out the stitches of a wound that’s only just begun to heal. He thinks he should, because that’s the nature of the wound. It’s a phantom itch, one scratching would relieve, but then the stitches would come out. “I’ve watched friends and lovers court the king’s favor, and disdain me in his presence. But he was their king. They needed his favor to survive in court, for their livelihoods and their families. So I accepted it. I think … I believe I should still accept it. But I want to be loved the way that thou lovest me. I want love that shelters and protects me, that won’t make a sacrificial lamb of me. I want love that will always acknowledge me, without having to hide itself in company. I’ve never decided the way I wanted to be loved ere now.”

[onthewillowsthere]

"That is the only way thou shouldst be loved." His fingers curl in the back of Claudius' cardigan, layered over his jacket and shirt, those many layers of armor that Claudius wears to protect himself. He feels that dizzying ache of fury, the way he did when Gertrude told him what Claudius is saying again now. He wants to hurt Sagramore.

Claudius has talked about Sagramore -- how he admires him and his easy way with people, how handsome he is on horseback, how warm and gentle and constant he is, how good his curls are to touch -- and Sagramore has failed to cherish what it means to be talked about by Claudius. He's failed to treat Claudius' love as the good green thing it is, growing up the trellises of the people Claudius chooses.

Galahad knows perfectly well what Claudius is talking about. Sagramore is lovers with Luo Binghe. It's one thing for Shen Yuan to choose Luo Binghe; it's another thing for Sagramore, who Claudius loves, to make that choice.

He draws his breath in quietly and lets it out, so that the only shake in his hands is their usual tremor, the one that's been with him since childhood, and which Claudius is used to. He remembers Claudius saying his brother threw his books in the fire once in anger, not because he was angry with Claudius, but just because he wanted to ruin something with his anger; Galahad's own anger can be private, held inside him, so there's no risk of it frightening Claudius with the promise of destruction.

[wickedwit]

It's a new and fragile thought, for all Claudius's philosophizing on love, all his wonder at the ways people find and fall for another. He knows no two people love the same. He felt it, as an angel, when love was like a light fracturing into many colors.

Not all love is kind. King Hamlet's love was a jealous, grasping thing, where he would not beteem the winds of heaven visit his queen's face too roughly, but neither would he let her walk in the sun. Perhaps Claudius fears that jealousy in himself, fears to peel back the curtain on his own feelings and find this is only another power play -- but he'd understand, if Sagramore told him that wasn't the way he wanted to be loved. If he couldn't be with someone who forced him to take sides. Couldn't Claudius give himself that same understanding?

There is way he wants to be loved. There is a way he should be loved. He breathes in and out and slow. "I love thee dearly," he says to Galahad.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thou art my beloved," quietly, calmly. "I love thee before all men, and all gods."

[wickedwit]

That soft blasphemy lays on him like an unction, soothing to his soul. "I think oft upon our kindred spirits," he murmurs. "How I damned myself deliberately, but ne'er defied what I believed was God's will for me. I did not not see much in my soul worth saving. I thought a life of lies, and retribution after death, were all my little existence merited. Now I want to live with thee, be true to thee, and be thy husband. No man or god would I let take this happiness from me. Do I love thee as thou deserv'st? Have I been as kind and as honest to thee as thou need'st from me?"

[onthewillowsthere]

That takes him by surprise. He doesn't know what kind of love he deserves -- he doesn't know what that means. He was never meant to be loved, not in the way Claudius does; he was meant for chastity and purity and denial, and perhaps someday, after he attained the Grail, to be loved in the ways saints are, with sexless adulation. He wasn't meant to be treasured. He wasn't meant for either the indulgence of desire or the warmth of living day to day with someone dear to him, for sleeping in one bed, for sharing meals and reading together. For Claudius' fingers between his lips, Claudius' voice urging him to moan. It's all heresy. How can he have expectations for how heresy should be done?

Galahad uncurls the angry fist of his fingers and draws them down Claudius' spine instead, stroking his back.

"I think so," he says. "But I don't know. Is it all right to ask for something else later?"

[wickedwit]

"Always. I will always be open to thee. I want thee to feel that thou canst ask me anything, tell me anything, and I will hear and heed thee, even when I cannot promise thee ay. When we make our vows to each other, I want my vow to be that I will always seek to understand thee, to understand thy heart, through all its changes."

[onthewillowsthere]

He draws back, just enough to tip Claudius' head back and look at him -- he wants to be able to see his eyes.

"Wilt thou ask me more questions? I liked when-- I took the herb that made it easy to speak, and thou asked me things. I liked answering thee." He worries at his lip, the way he had in the greenhouse at his birthday party, but his voice is certain. "Because it's hard for me to speak, sometimes I don't say anything. But I want to."