On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

He studies Galahad's face for another moment, allowing himself to linger in affection for him. There was a time when he anticipated that Galahad would never speak with him again, much less trust him, allow his embrace, or come and sit with him in his own bedroom like this. For most of his life, he had accepted being singular and alone in that. It is a fragile gift he has been given.

He stands, then, and picks up the tray of dirty tea components, intending to head for the kitchen with Galahad following. He did ask to help.