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[open post -- linearity]
Jan. 23rd, 2024 10:48 amWhen he was Laurel, he used to conduct experiments all the time. He liked listening to Claudius talk about the very idea of experimenting, of creating a hypothesis and gathering the tools to test it; Claudius was more scientifically-minded about it and kept a log of his own findings, but Laurel made no more record than telling him every night about what things he had been able to get the many cupboards and cabinets and closets of the mansion to produce by what combination of thought and intent.
Galahad doesn't remember that well. He remembers the scarf Laurel chose for Claudius, after all the time he spent reading about clothes and considering what would look fashionable and fine on him. He remembers wrapping it in tissue paper and nestling it into the drawer with Claudius' dossier to give to him later. And of course he remembers seeing Claudius wear it, the day he found him in the garden with the spray of myrtle, and how it made him believe it was possible that Claudius still loved him and would want him back again. It made him think of Camelot, of seeing knights and ladies wear each other's tokens and colors, of seeing his own father in the lists with the queen's favor before he unhorsed all the other men who rode against him with bone-jarring strikes and falls (Galahad always sat out tourneys in his home court -- mere frivolity, God said -- though when he quested he was sometimes told to prove his strength and God's power in such games. Regardless, he only ever wore his red cross). For a moment, now, his mind strays to Claudius' bare neck, and how the white silk would look against his skin, how it would feel-- stop.
The point is he has an experiment to make now. His own experiment, not Laurel's.
He's sitting in the most public place he could think of, the front entrance by the welcome table, with a notebook and two small closed boxes. He's placed a chair for himself and his back is perfectly straight, but he's working hard to project an air of come talk to me. It's a welcome respite from trying to write a love letter.
Galahad doesn't remember that well. He remembers the scarf Laurel chose for Claudius, after all the time he spent reading about clothes and considering what would look fashionable and fine on him. He remembers wrapping it in tissue paper and nestling it into the drawer with Claudius' dossier to give to him later. And of course he remembers seeing Claudius wear it, the day he found him in the garden with the spray of myrtle, and how it made him believe it was possible that Claudius still loved him and would want him back again. It made him think of Camelot, of seeing knights and ladies wear each other's tokens and colors, of seeing his own father in the lists with the queen's favor before he unhorsed all the other men who rode against him with bone-jarring strikes and falls (Galahad always sat out tourneys in his home court -- mere frivolity, God said -- though when he quested he was sometimes told to prove his strength and God's power in such games. Regardless, he only ever wore his red cross). For a moment, now, his mind strays to Claudius' bare neck, and how the white silk would look against his skin, how it would feel-- stop.
The point is he has an experiment to make now. His own experiment, not Laurel's.
He's sitting in the most public place he could think of, the front entrance by the welcome table, with a notebook and two small closed boxes. He's placed a chair for himself and his back is perfectly straight, but he's working hard to project an air of come talk to me. It's a welcome respite from trying to write a love letter.
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