On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

Galahad tells a story much in the way that Lan Wangji himself does, as a concise series of facts, which comes as no surprise, but which strikes some now-familiar chord of fondness within him. He listens quietly, the tea cooling in his hands, and tries to imagine Percival, a boy who lived in the woods until he was nearly grown. "You met him there?"