[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

[lightbearinglord]

"If I bring you something, will you have it?" He is not so gentle as his brother. He has no endearments or distracting tales of cultivation world gossip, no easy smiles.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Yes," still so soft.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji trusts that Galahad knows to wait without him instructing it, and that he knows to stay in place, because he himself would know if their positions were reversed. He nods again and stands, to leave in search of whatever he can find for Galahad.

It is less than an incense time before he returns, a tray balanced in one hand. He's brought a small bowl of that herbal soup he had this morning, two inexplicable mung bean cakes, and a pot of slightly weak tea. The pot and cups are the ones Claudius conjured into existence with his borrowed celestial abilities.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad hasn't moved, because it's easy not to move. He lets his soul float up to the ceiling like a dried leaf caught in the wind and rests there, gazing down at his body. When he sees Lan Wangji return he tries to float back down.

[lightbearinglord]

"You will need to sit up to eat," Lan Wangji says. It is a fact, unavoidable and neutral. He pulls a bedside table out, toward Galahad, with one hand, and sets down his tray of food with the other.

[onthewillowsthere]

He nods, and slowly, shakily, draws himself upright. It takes so much effort.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji hesitates, and then sits beside Galahad on the bed. Belatedly, he removes his boots, setting them neatly one next to the other, so that he can cross his legs without dirtying the bedclothes. "Lean on me if it will help."

[onthewillowsthere]

He knows it will help, so he rests his tired body against Lan Wangji's side. Once in Camelot he was taken with a fever, and Percival stayed with him like this, holding him up with his own body so he could drink water and broth. He feels a welling up of gratitude towards Lan Wangji, for taking care of him. Claudius loves him, and has taken care of him too, but this is the first time when it hasn't been a singular person who cares about him. It's not just Claudius. He has Magnus, and Lan Wangji. There are people to whom he matters.

[lightbearinglord]

Galahad feels impossibly small and slight, his weight like nothing more than a bundle of incense sticks. It makes it exceptionally easy to remain upright, straight-backed and solid, as he reaches first for the soup to pass it into Galahad's hands. "Eat."

[onthewillowsthere]

He lets the warmth of the bowl soothe his chilled hands, which reminds him that Tress cares about him too -- Tress is making him gloves. And he has a present for her, one he'd almost finished before the Passiontide laid waste to his happiness. He's not alone, he tells himself.

He sips the soup, slowly, a little of the time, and then waits for his body to adjust to it.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji sits, silent, watching to ensure that he eats. Once he is sure of it, he pours them each a cup of tea as well, holding back his sleeve with one hand. The tea is of poor quality by his standards, but it is hot and still smells almost reminiscent of home.

[onthewillowsthere]

The soup and the tea both give him that same memory he had at Wanderers Gather, of being in the nunnery. He closes his eyes and breathes the steam from the cup before he drinks. He's grateful for Lan Wangji's steadiness. He still feels faraway, but he can taste the herbs on his tongue, a little bitter, familiar, and it draws him another step back to himself.

[lightbearinglord]

For quite a while, Lan Wangji remains quiet as he sips his tea and monitors Galahad. It's not unlike sitting with him at Enjolras' meeting, meditatively keeping an eye on him, but this time, they are in perfect silence together. There are only the small sounds of drinking and eating.

[onthewillowsthere]

Slowly, he reminds himself over and over, as his stomach cramps and begs for food. This is always how a fast ends. This is familiar, and he likes familiar things.

Finally he finishes both the soup and the tea, and closes his eyes. "Thank you for taking care of me."

[lightbearinglord]

Without otherwise moving, given that Galahad is still leaning on him, Lan Wangji looks to the side, at the shock of light hair and the narrow shoulders. He knows how much power Galahad holds. He can feel it even now, resonating in his meridians. Still, the impression of fragility is overwhelming. "You're welcome," he says, almost gentle with it.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I thought it would be spring," he tries to explain.

[lightbearinglord]

"It should be," Lan Wangji says, grim. The lingering darkness is oppressive and inescapable.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I feel--" He hesitates. He's not used to talking about his feelings with anyone except Claudius and Magnus. "Lost. Crushed."

[lightbearinglord]

Indeed, Lan Wangji is faintly surprised that Galahad is volunteering this, because he knows how difficult he finds it to do the same. He takes a slow sip of tea. "When I was a child, each day was the same. I could await anything, because I knew when everything would come to pass. It is harder to wait for something whose arrival is uncertain."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Yes." He's relieved at being understood, although his relief comes out in the usual flat tone. "I miss rules. Even though they hurt sometimes."

[lightbearinglord]

"Mn," Lan Wangji says, with perfect understanding. He turns his cup in his hand, aching at the little blue clouds that pattern it. It is a memory of home, and a memory of how much Claudius cares for him, all at once. The mansion no longer feels safe. He wants to take all of them away with him, to tuck every person he loves here into his arms and sleeves and carry them back to Gusu. "The four thousand rules are carved in stone at the entrance of the Cloud Recesses."

[onthewillowsthere]

It makes Galahad think of the ten commandments, etched in stone, and the six-hundred and three other commandments that come after them, laid out in scripture. He remembers poring over Exodus and Deuteronomy as a boy, making sure he understood everything he was supposed to do.

Every time he talks to Lan Wangji he feels as if he learns so much more about how they're the same, and it makes him feel a little warmer that Claudius chose them both. Sometimes he worries that Claudius will want something else, someone more capable of bending to change, someone who doesn't take weeks of silent thought to come to terms with a new feeling; someone who speaks easily and eloquently, like Grantaire, or loves immediately, like Sagramore, or knows what Claudius has suffered as Laertes does. But Claudius loves Lan Wangji so much-- he's called Lan Wangji his brother, when a brother is something that might only hold sorrow and hurt. He talks expansively of how much his heart is in accord with Lan Wangji, how Lan Wangji knows him so well. Galahad can't possibly doubt the extent of Claudius' care and esteem. If he is like Lan Wangji, then perhaps they're the sort of person Claudius wants most to be with, and would choose, more than once. It makes Galahad feel more certain of himself, less afraid of disappointing Claudius or not being enough.

He tips his chin up to look at Lan Wangji. "Are you all right?"

[lightbearinglord]

The question, coming from Galahad, is not so surprising as it might be. There is something in Galahad that answers to something in him, like plucking a qin string and hearing his brother's xiao in response. Lan Wangji trains his gaze to stay on that teacup as he considers how best to answer. He trusts, too, that Galahad will not mind waiting for his response.

"I have endured worse than this," he says, finally, "but I have not felt fear like this in some time."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Because of Magnus?"

[lightbearinglord]

"Mn." There are other matters, but that is the most pressing one. He watches the surface of his half-drunk tea and the settling of leaves at the bottom of the cup.