[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]

Because they are so similar, because he feels that similarity more and more each time they speak, Lan Wangji accepts this for the gift that it is. He meets that gaze. "Thank you."

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad nods, and settles back against Lan Wangji's shoulder. "Will you come visit us this week? Claudius would like it. And I would, also."

[lightbearinglord]

The question startles him a little, but it has an easy answer. "I will," Lan Wangji agrees, without hesitation.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thank you."

[lightbearinglord]

"There is no need to thank me." He means it. Visiting with Claudius is no hardship; it is a privilege, something he would be pleased to do anyway. The same is true of visiting with Galahad.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I know. It's something people say. It means I know you've helped me, even if you wanted to."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji understands the back-and-forth of etiquette, but he listens to, and accepts, this explanation of Galahad's specific meaning. He glances down again at him, and says, again, "You're welcome," again almost gentle with it.

[onthewillowsthere]

Through the blank distance of his sadness, Galahad feels a little flame of warmth in his chest, as delicate and small as a candle's light. He's understood.

He closes his eyes -- he's still so tired -- and rests against Lan Wangji.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji tries, again, to think of what he wanted when he was at his most lost. He doesn't know the entirety of what has Galahad so adrift, if it is only the misery of the elusive spring or if there is something more, but he remembers what it is to feel crushed. Most of what he wanted then was impossible. As the cold fog of his grief cleared, though, there were small things. He sets down his teacup, wondering what his mother would have to say about the pattern of leaves at the bottom, and fits his arm around Galahad's shoulders, the way he would do for Magnus, the way he did for Claudius by the fire at the feast.

[onthewillowsthere]

It's unexpected, because Lan Wangji hasn't touched him before now, not in a way like this. Because Lan Wangji is so tall, it makes him feel as if he's in the lea of some great stone or tree, shielded from the rain.

He doesn't say thank you again, because he doesn't need to, but he lets himself be shielded and safe.

[lightbearinglord]

Once it is clear that Galahad isn't going to object to his touch, Lan Wangji settles. This is an easy posture to hold. The room is silent and there is only the sound of the wind through bare branches outside the mansion. He can't shelter everyone the way he wants to, but he can shelter Galahad here, now, with him, and he can breathe. That can be enough for a time.