onthewillowsthere: (look down)
Galahad has collected every insect guide he could find in the mansion's library, and now he is camped out in a laboratory it seems to have created particularly for him and Susan -- the room has its own microscope, so that he can stop borrowing Claudius', and every single shelf is filled with glass habitats or mesh tents for keeping insects.

With his single-minded determination, he has filled many of them -- the tents house carefully potted foot-high milkweeds with tiny butterfly eggs affixed to their leaves, or potato plants he hopes will soon harbor potato beetles, or butterflies resting on the mesh. In the glass habitats there are millipedes, gleaming tenebrionid beetles, huge and bumbling scarabs, the dogbane leaf beetle Lancelot helped him capture, shiny blister beetles, leafhoppers in every shade of green, a pair of picasso bugs, an mantis he found in the greenhouse pretending to be an orchid flower.

Many of these insects stay only long enough to be identified and documented. Galahad and Susan between them take careful notes, make drawings, take pictures. When possible, they identify to species; more often, they identify genera or family, country of origin if they're lucky. Then they let their subjects go again. Neither of them has the time nor the inclination to feed and care for the immense diversity of insects living on the mansion's grounds. Potato beetles are one thing, but catching other tiny insects for the tiger beetles every morning is unsustainable. Galahad doesn't mind. Once he has a picture and the notes, the insect is saved, even if they don't see it again.

In the morning he trains with Lan Wangji, so it's an afternoon now when he's perched on a stool in front of the microscope, inspecting a chlaenius beetle to see whether it's possible to confirm a species. Unfortunately, these beetles are too fast and squirmy to put on a slide alive, so he's ethered it first. Now he's working diligently on his sketch, his pale head bowed as he studies the tiny body.

[Open especially to anyone who needs to be reassured that Galahad is back after the mod event and he's just fine now]
onthewillowsthere: (suffer the children)
When 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.

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onthewillowsthere: (Default)
Galahad son of Lancelot

April 2025

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