On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

If he knew he would die before Claudius -- if Claudius were a creature of legends, ageless and powerful -- would he want to be consumed? When Galahad thinks about it like that, when he imagines all the molecules of flesh that make him, all the cells, becoming part of Claudius' body and his molecules and cells, uniting them in a way God would never understand or condone-- He understands. It feels of an impulse with his own desire to watch Claudius cut his body open. He imagines Claudius slitting the delicate skin of his wrists, so pale they're almost blue, and drinking the blood from him like a sacrament: Drink this, all of you. This is my blood that was shed for you and for many. Except that his blood would be for Claudius only, a consecrated drink from the cup of his body. He imagines Claudius with his lips and teeth stained red; he imagines Claudius tearing open his chest with both hands, precise as a surgeon in spite of the brute force, and devouring him from the heart.

He flushes. He nods, to show Lan Wangji he understands, and he can continue.