On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

"Yes. I came a year before him. We met at Mass." He takes a drink of his tea, which is cool enough now, and savors the earthy taste on his tongue; he remembers Percival, with his ruddy skin and his red-gold hair, grinning and reaching for his hand. It was the first time he had been touched by anyone other than in combat since he was a child. "He decided we would be friends. I had never had a friend before. He was knighted very young because when he came he killed a man who had dishonored the Queen, and the King rewarded him for it." Galahad drinks again, lets himself be silent and gather his thoughts in the space it takes to swallow the mouthful of tea. "Before you become a knight, there is a chapel vigil. You must stay awake all night in the chapel and pray. I couldn't be with him because I was already knighted, but I waited outside for him." He remembers looking up at the stained-glass windows and wondering whether Percival was looking at them too; wondering whether Percival was saying the same prayers. He remembers wishing that they were together, because he already missed the feeling of Percival's hand in his.