On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

He thinks of Galahad, even younger than he is now, waiting for his friend, the first person to claim him. Percival sat vigil for his knighthood; Galahad did the same for Percival. He swallows his own sip of tea. "You loved him," he says -- quiet, almost hushed with it, but not a question. To love someone is to wait for them.