On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

This year, Easter doesn't come in the bleakness of Dark. Galahad marks it, because he's continued to keep the days, although it's become more difficult now that he has to calculate the waxing and waning moon himself -- the little pocket calendar Claudius gave him only went through one year, and now is used up. The computus paschalis would ordinarily be made by the local priest, anchored on the March equinox, but in this place with its twin moons this is not an observable phenomenon. But Galahad knows the equation. He remembers everything.

It no longer matters the way it used to. He doesn't fast during Lent, because self-denial without purpose is pointless: why should he hunger, if not to remember Christ's hunger? Why should he keep a vigil, if not to remember Gethsemane?

Why should 8th Menestheus matter except that it's 8th Menestheus, and outside the snow is piled deep?

Galahad wakes early, as always, and goes downstairs to prepare breakfast. Without Dark to limit the mansion's supplies, he has everything he needs, and this does matter: like the moons, this place's bounty does wax and wane, and Galahad offers up a prayer of thanks for the time of plenty. Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt: And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land.

He makes quickbread with the sweet potatoes Laertes gave them at the end of fall, and cooks rounds of pork sausage flavored with brown sugar, sage, and pepper. He brews coffee, as strong as he can make it, and prepares tea for himself. When breakfast is ready he carries the tray back upstairs and sets it down on the kotatsu, where Claudius likes to sprawl on cold mornings like Regina on her favorite sun-dappled armchair.

Instead of waking Claudius, though, Galahad sits on the edge of the bed to watch him. Last Easter, Galahad was adrift, hurting, barely connected to his body; he remembers going numbly from the lake to his old room to their shared one, how he wrapped himself in one of Claudius' robes and tried to become warm again. He remembers his vision of Percival, and his despair.

This year is different. His husband sleeps a hand's-breadth away, close enough that Galahad can smooth back the errant curl at his brow. He has more friends than he did last year. He's chosen things for himself. He's lost God's favor entirely, and found better favor to replace it. Over the last forty days, he and Magnus have talked about this, because Magnus wants Easter to be better for him than it was last year -- Magnus wants to give him everything he needs, but what Galahad needs from the Paschal miracle has changed. The meaning of rebirth and salvation have changed since he came here.

Yesterday, instead of fasting and grieving for a martyred savior, Galahad and Magnus dyed eggs and hunted them with Drosera, who gleefully snapped them to shards with her bill, and Galahad meditated in his chapel, but didn't pray to God. A week ago he wove the palm leaves Magnus carefully curated all year for him, but not into crosses; he's teaching himself to make dragonflies like the ones he imagines Lan Sizhui loved in the marketplace in Yiling.

And today he's watching Claudius' chest rise and fall beneath the filmy negligee he wore to bed. There's a livid bruise on his throat where Galahad kissed him too hard the night before.

When Mary met her lord outside the tomb, she supposed him to be the gardener, and said unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. But Galahad knows that his lord is the gardener, and he knows where he's laid.

He bends down and kisses Claudius' cheek, and says, "Husband. It's time to wake up."

[cw grief and grieving]

Often it's a struggle for Galahad to talk about important things when they happen. Sometimes it's because he's not yet sure what he thinks about them, and he has to roll them around in his mind like grains of sand until they coalesce. Sometimes it's because he knows exactly what he thinks, and it's something too great for him to express right away. He still hasn't told Claudius that he saw Percival on the day the visitors came -- it's too much. Every time he considers it his words dry up, like dew when the sun comes up.

When he gets back to their room, Claudius takes one look at him and asks, "What happened?" with a touch of sharpness in his voice that Galahad knows is only worry, not rebuke.

And this time Galahad speaks right away. "Shen Yuan is dead," he says.

Claudius arises from his desk and crosses the room, and pulls Galahad into his arms. For just a moment, Galahad wonders if he should feel childish for needing so much comfort, when Magnus and Lan Wangji have already worried about him. But Shen Yuan was his friend, his first friend, someone he wanted to know better. Shen Yuan was important. It's all right that Galahad can't do anything but put his head down on Claudius' shoulder and weep. Claudius brings him over to the bed and gathers him in and rocks him a little, smoothing the thistledown of Galahad's hair with a hand that doesn't shake, until Galahad's tears are finished.

That night he has to tell Claudius to sleep. Claudius stays up at his desk, writing in his dossier, tapping his pen against the surface of the paper and twirling it between his fingers. He looks off towards the wall thoughtfully, and Galahad can't read his face at all, because there's nothing there to read.

When he's ordered, Claudius does come. He takes off his dressing gown and places it carefully over the back of his chair, as he does every night, and slips under the covers in his silk pajamas, and lets Galahad hold him -- as he does every night, as they do every night. But this time Galahad doesn't know whether it matters.

This is the pattern of the next few days, a pattern where not everything is the same, like compline (this or another suitable reading may be used). They make breakfast together, as they often do now, but Claudius doesn't eat until Galahad orders him to -- as if he's forgotten until Galahad reminds him. Galahad goes to his training with Lan Wangji, because now it matters even more. While he's gone, it's impossible to clear his mind; all he thinks about is Claudius/Magnus/Shen Yuan/this or another suitable hymn may be sung. Whenever he's not with Claudius or Magnus, he worries about them (is Magnus safe? Whatever killed Shen Yuan tried to kill Magnus also. Whatever killed Shen Yuan killed him while Luo Binghe was present: it doesn't matter whether Galahad is with him. Is Claudius safe? Is he taking care of himself? Will he eat a midday meal without Galahad present to tell him to do it?). There are a hundred things Claudius does in a day that Galahad likes to think of him doing: meeting with his friends, reading, listening to the record player, spending time in his alchemical workshop with Laertes, playing weiqi with Lan Wangji, choosing the flowers for the welcome table, working in his trauma book. It's early in the spring, but there are plants in the greenhouse that need to be prepared to be placed back outside. Galahad can't trust that Claudius is doing any of those things, because it's just as likely that he'll be walking by the front entrance, pacing back and forth, waiting for someone to come by so he can talk to them -- but it's talk that's like eating without tasting. It's not the usual pleasure Claudius takes from information and its exchange; it's just something to do instead of starving.

He and Claudius are often apart during the day, and it's never bothered him before. They always rejoin each other to sleep in their shared bed. Now Galahad is anxious every moment he can't see Claudius and doesn't know where he is.

After training, Galahad goes to the chapel Magnus made for him and sits at the base of the tree, listening to the string of bells, or he finds Laertes and they work on casting the wax for Claudius' ring (although Laertes is anxious, too, and downcast, worrying about Claudius and Sagramore and everyone else), or one of the following short lessons or another suitable passage is read.

There are so many things Galahad wishes he had said to Shen Yuan. He could have talked more. He could have tried harder to spend time with Shen Yuan, despite his disdain for Luo Binghe. He remembers them writing their love letters together. He remembers them playing Jenga. He remembers Shen Yuan explaining Pokemon to him and to Magnus, the half-finished book of illustrations he and Magnus had been working on before Galahad resumed training with Lan Wangji. He remembers the spiderflower and the gentle touch of Shen Yuan's fingers against his cheek, healing him. He remembers Shen Yuan choosing his clothes for the dance, piercing his ears, painting his portrait. He turns all those memories over and over, innumerable grains of sand, rolling between his fingers -- he thinks of them constantly, every moment he's not thinking about Claudius and Magnus. There is nothing he could have done to stop Shen Yuan from dying, but he could have done more while he was alive.

He misses Percival still, but Percival is alive somewhere, living a life that doesn't have Galahad in it. Shen Yuan is just gone.

In the evening, Galahad goes and finds Claudius, wherever he is, and brings him back -- from the entryway, from their room, from the parlor where Lan Wangji likes to meditate. It feels like journeying down a distant path to bring back a lost animal. If no one has made Claudius eat, Galahad leads them to the kitchen to prepare their evening meal; Claudius is obedient and quiet, and does every task he's given, but he doesn't seem present. Sometimes he seems as faraway as Percival, as Shen Yuan. When the food is finished, he eats because Galahad tells him to. He doesn't tease or smile, not in the right way.

Prayers or thanksgivings may be offered here.

It's easier for Galahad at night, but he doesn't think it's easier for Claudius, because at night there's nothing to do. At night Galahad knows exactly where Claudius is, and whether or not it matters, whether or not there's any way he could possibly protect Claudius, at least he knows that he can take care of him; he can tell him to eat and drink and sleep and Claudius will do it. It's not enough.

One night he sends Claudius to Sagramore and Laertes, because they've experienced more things that he has, they know more, and perhaps they'll know better what to do. He's not jealous, and he wants something to help. But he doesn't think it helps. It doesn't make anything change.

How could it?

Maybe it will get better with time. All the worst things in Galahad's life have softened with time, even his despair, and perhaps that's a pattern, too. But if it is, it's a slow one, and Galahad doesn't know how much time they have. Magnus is afraid. Lan Wangji is afraid. He is afraid, and tired, and sad, and it's only because of the people he loves that he keeps getting up in the morning over and over.

He lies in bed, with Claudius in his arms, and listens to the sound of him breathing. Whatever peace and safety Galahad feels at night, it can't last. Morning always comes, and the pattern repeats, and Shen Yuan is dead.

Shen Yuan is dead.

Amen.

Emily Post once wrote, "If you are engaged, of course you should write love letters -- the most beautiful that you can -- but don't write baby-talk and other silliness that would make you feel idiotic were the letter to fall into cynical unromantic hands."

Galahad is not engaged (and the very idea of engagement is utterly outside the scope of anything he would have ever imagined for himself, although once Lady Post has introduced it it does become suddenly very interesting), but he does want to write the most beautiful letter possible, without any of the qualities that might make someone cynical and unromantic look scornfully on it. He knows, from listening to Claudius talk, that Claudius often pretends to be both -- but knowing it to be a pretense makes it worse, not better. Claudius pretends about things that matter to him. It feels as if it would be breath-takingly easy to disappoint him.

In some matters, the lady is helpful. She lays out precisely what kind of paper to use depending on one's own handwriting and sex, from size to color to dimensions. Galahad carefully chooses his stationery, solid white, smaller so that it suits his small handwriting -- he measures to be sure it's 5 3/4 by 7 1/2 inches, as she instructs. He dates it in the upper right hand. When it comes to greetings, she describes a scale of intimacy in which "darling" is the most intimate -- Galahad writes "beloved," instead.

(He thinks of Claudius telling him that in most couples there is a lover and a beloved, and how once he was only the beloved, and now he's both. He thinks of St. John of the Cross, writing, oh, night that joined beloved with lover, transforming each into the other. It feels holy, to be both -- to be a sacrament of love.)

And then, once he's written "Beloved Claudius," he finds himself sitting at Claudius' desk, staring at a blank page, more lost for words than he's ever been in his life.

Emily Post has helpful examples of all sorts of letters, endless templates for social letters, letters of apology, letters of thanks. When it comes to love letters, she says, "Love letters are too sacred to follow a set form. One rule, and one only, should guide you in writing such letters. Say what you truly feel. Say that and nothing else. Sit down at your desk, let your thoughts dwell on the person you are writing to."

He dwells. He slips into himself, into his wheatfield, and doesn't try to thresh or gather a single one. He thinks about all the things he loves about Claudius, all the studying he's done, all the pieces of the cipher he's translated into knowledge. He thinks about watching Claudius sleep, watching him rise, watching him choose his clothes -- watching him read, speak, eat, bathe, bleed, come.

Beloved Claudius, he writes. I love you. I love your eyes. Your eyes are two different colors of brown. I love your silver hairs. I know they vex you but I like them. I love the way you twist your ring when you're uncertain. You said Gertrude gave you rings you couldn't wear -- I want to give you rings you can. I want to give you everything. I want to give you everything you've ever wanted I love your hands. I love watching you speak because of how you use your hands. Before Magnus taught you signs you still spoke with your hands. He crumples the page and throws it in the little wastebasket beside the desk.

Beloved Claudius, I like when you brush my hair I like when you take care of me You told me your hands could hurt and heal, but I wish it were easy to say what I mean. I want to tell you everything I feel about you. I want you to know that I love you more than I love you more than anything. I always speak to you in scripture because it's easy to say what someone else said and I want to say the right thing. I don't want to disappoint you, and I want you to feel l cared for beloved. I want you to feel the way you make me feel. No.

Beloved Claudius, When I thought you didn't want me any more I didn't know how I would be able to go back to not being yours. I want you to feel, if you can't be with Gertrude, as if having me could also make you happy. I want to make you happy. No.

Beloved Claudius, I love to listen to you. I love when you tell me about your plants and teach me things about them. I love when you talk about your books. I love when you complain about things, and work out the mystery before the detective does, and how much you hate Philo Vance, save that you don't hate him and if he were really here you'd still go to bed with him so you could learn more about him. I love when you tell me about all your plans and Aziraphale and Crowley and Grantaire and Enjolras and what you think about everyone. You know so many things about people. I like when you tell me about them. I wonder if you tell other people about me. I want to know what you think about me, and if your voice is soft when you do, and whether you touch your watch. I No.

Beloved, I didn't know you liked to watch me eat. Now that I know I want it. I wish you would give me all the things you want to see me taste and watch me and feed me from your hand and kiss me and put your fingers in my mouth and No. No. Stop.

I want to protect you. I want you always to be safe. I want to keep you from being hurt. I want to hurt everyone who ever hurt you.

He throws away the last sheet of paper and sits for a while staring at nothing. Everything Claudius says sounds beautiful, careful -- the letter Claudius wrote him when they were apart is still in his things, a treasure, words he's committed to memory like any psalm. Once I had looked at you, and hoped we could know each other’s hurts and heal them. When I fell for you, it was with a part of you that came to life in other circumstances. He can't begin to imagine writing anything that Claudius would hold in his heart or cherish more than salvation.

He needs help.

He puts away his writing things -- he'll have to find more paper -- and goes to get his jacket. He needs to find Shen Yuan.

A littler purpose.

Galahad imagines the grain of wheat all the time now, preciously tucked in the pocket of his corduroy pants, close by if he needs to hold it in his hand. It has a weight, somehow, and that weight is grounding; he can always find it when he needs it.

Every night Claudius tells him about his plans for the wedding dance -- what's done, what still needs to be done, what pieces have been put into play. He tells him about Jasin Natael, the bard, who will arrange the music and who is sleeping with Sagramore, obviously, but fortunately it seems he can be clear-eyed about it and understands that he is necessary for this whole enterprise (Claudius lays emphasis on words in a way that Galahad finds frankly bewildering, but he likes it too. He's gotten used to it, and he thinks it would feel wrong to hear Claudius speak uninflected). He tells him that he's found a room he believes will be suitable, large enough for tables and chairs and mingling and dancing. He's pleased and maybe surprised (Galahad doesn't know whether he ever surprises Claudius) that Galahad has already begun to practice what he would bake -- he takes a tiny pecan pie as if it were a treasure and tastes it, brushing away crumbs of pastry fastidiously when they flake off in his lap, but he says, very good. Galahad wishes he could sketch something that showed what those words feel like, something soaring and magnificent but small and soft too. He nods. He'll keep practicing.

Claudius has things to do besides planning. He likes to talk to everyone, to know what everyone is doing, and he's often busy. Galahad doesn't expect to see him during the day; he likes their nighttime routine and he understands that Claudius is not like him, that Claudius takes to company like a field of wheat drinking in the rain.

But to his surprise, Claudius begins to make space for him in his days, too.

"Help me with this," he says, having learned not to ask if Galahad would like to help. The days are getting cooler and the nights incrementally longer, and Claudius takes Galahad to the gardens and begins showing him how to overwinter the delicate plants.

There's something about seeing Claudius without his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his impeccable presentation spoiled by sweat on his brow and a lock of hair falling loose, or dirt on the knees of his trousers. Galahad wants-- the wanting rises up in him like a wave, choking him. But he's used to pushing it down, riding it out, so he says nothing, and instead kneels down beside Claudius to be taught what to cut back and what to dig up and what will be covered with dead leaves and brown paper to protect it from the frost.

So that becomes a routine too, not daily, but once or twice a week when Claudius has the time. He brings Galahad to the greenhouse and shows him how to transplant the bashful plant into sturdy ceramic pots that will see it through the cold months. He explains that the plant may fail to root properly because it has lost roots through being moved; that it must be watered plentifully to make up for the fact that the earth in the pot holds water less than the ground outside. The leaves may scorch and curl. It must be treated generously to overcome these obstacles.

When he says this, Galahad thinks he isn't just talking about the plant, but he doesn't want to be wrong so he keeps silent. He can feel Claudius' gaze on him. He keeps his head down.

A few days later, Claudius says again, "Help me with this," and Galahad follows him dutifully.

This is a straightforward task that requires no thought at all -- Claudius shows him the great hall where he wants to hold the dance, and asks Galahad to help him move tables and chairs into it. He does what he's directed, and it feels good. He misses being told what to do sometimes, the ease of it, the voice in his ear instructing him and cautioning him.

He's slight, slighter than Claudius, and he doesn't know whether he'll be strong enough for this until he tries it (it's not, after all, like holding a sword), but it seems whatever strength he holds for fighting follows through to this (he thinks of someone whose face he can't get to resolve, the mocking strength of ten). He moves furniture easily, and it's so solid and specific that he can't help but feel something almost like joy. It's so simple.

When he has everything to Claudius' liking, Claudius takes his hand, and dabs his face tenderly with a handkerchief, though it isn't necessary. Galahad is grateful for this, too, in the same way he's grateful when Claudius brushes his hair or brings him some smooth object and presses it unobtrusively into his hand.

Claudius presses his hand now, looking at him thoughtfully. "Beloved," he says. Galahad aches. "I'm going to kiss you."

Galahad digs his thumb into Claudius' palm urgently, hard enough that he's sure he's hurt him, but if he has Claudius doesn't show it in any way that Galahad can read. Instead he does what he's said, and kisses him.

It isn't the first time, but usually when they kiss it's right before bed, and Galahad has no trouble pushing down his wants. This is different. His chest gutters, oil and flame, hungry and demanding. He's getting better at kissing with practice -- he's less clumsy than he was at first, and he knows Claudius' mouth, the way his lips part, the way it feels when he's smirking into it -- but he has to come at it studiously, as if Claudius were a psalm and Galahad is reading call and response, following the line, waiting for his turn. This is different. He feels untethered, half loose from his body, blood roaring in his ears, and he licks into Claudius' mouth with an animal sound: Claudius grips his arms with a bite of neatly trimmed nails, and Galahad wrenches back. He aches with shame.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"No, no," Claudius says, looking at him again, as unreadable as he was in the greenhouse. "Do you want to continue?"

Galahad shakes his head, and Claudius accepts this.

After that he's more careful. It's one thing to see the possibility in the wheat, and another thing to feel wild and rapacious. He doesn't mind the bedtime kisses; they're part of a routine, a quiet intimacy after the gift of listening to Claudius speak. They're not chaste, he knows that, but they feel permissible. Wanting more than that -- taking more than that -- still feels like a sin so grave he's made stone by the idea of committing it.

He lets himself have smaller sins, though. Despite not asking Shen Qingqiu for his remedy again, he sometimes wraps himself in Claudius' purple robe and sits at the vanity, studying his own face, trying to imagine himself beautiful (he realizes his hair is overlong now, wilder, more tangled, but he isn't brave enough to ask Claudius to cut it for him). He feels held like that, and he lets himself feel held. He practices the sign for his name in the mirror, and imagines being someone new -- not like Laurel, scraped of his memories like cooked meat from a bone, but someone who remembers everything and moves forward from it, leaving behind what he doesn't want.

He wears what he wants to wear. He doesn't like his white linen tunics and the complicated laces of the hose -- it's just he's always worn them, and it was unthinkable to do anything else. Now he finds a compromise between the things he likes and the ways Claudius dresses, and chooses pants and sweaters, soft things with raised patterns he can touch.

He keeps his fast days, but when he's not fasting, he eats what he wants to eat. He reads when he wants to. He spends more time with Magnus and Shen Qingqiu and walks outside and gets better at sketching, and doesn't ask Magnus to spar with him unless Magnus asks first. He plays billiards by himself and shoots with Enjolras. Littler purposes, which make the yawning vastness of freedom feel less like a chasm that could engulf him.

One day when he's in the greenhouse with Claudius he realizes that Claudius arranges flowers too. The little vase on the welcome table is his; Galahad has seen him choosing flowers in the garden and seen them in the vase later on. He'd known, or he thinks he'd known, but not moved from knowing to knowing, not felt the knowledge as a real thing before.

Galahad stands and when Claudius looks up at him he holds out his hand. "Come with me," he says, because that's easier than trying to explain, and to his relief Claudius takes his hand and allows Galahad to lead him out to the garden, to the myrtle tree that still has some blooms left in its branches, though it probably shouldn't. Galahad isn't as connected to the turn of seasons as Percival was, but he does realize the flowers should be gone by now, when it's November back in Camelot.

Claudius stands at his shoulder, still holding his hand, and for once he doesn't say anything, as if he's waiting.

Galahad is silent. He knows what he wants to ask, but he never knows whether it will be possible to say the words, or whether they'll be the ones he wants when they finally come. But at last he says, "I want to make a myrtle crown to wear for my portrait."

There's no thunderclap; the earth doesn't crack. They're still in the garden, Claudius' smooth fingers against the roughness of his scar. Nothing is different. Everything is different. If God has rejected him again, there's no way to feel it.

"I want you to help me," Galahad says softly. "I mean, I'd like your help."

And then, before Claudius can answer or not answer, he puts his free hand in his pocket and holds the grain of wheat in his fist.

"Wake up."

Percival shakes his shoulder, raising him out of sleep. Galahad lifts his head. His hair is too light to fall in his eyes, more like the massed feathers in a goose's breast, but it's always a mess anyway, and Percival laughs and combs his fingers through it. Their room at the inn is cold; the fire's gone out.

"I slept too long?"

"No, I got you up in time, don't worry."

Galahad glances towards the window. It's still dark out. He and Percival always share a room when they lodge on the road, and a bed as well; Percival is warm as a banked fire under the blankets and they always wind up pressed together, as if while he was sleeping Galahad had sought out his warmth and clung to it. He can feel cold seeping in across the spot where Percival was lying beside him.

Getting out of bed is always hard, but Percival takes his hands and pulls him until he's sitting up, and they both laugh about it. In the mornings Galahad always imagines he's made out of stone, so heavy he can't rise, but it's different like this. It's been different since Percival came. He's easy to follow.

"Get dressed, come on," he says, still holding Galahad's hands, like it's a game.

Galahad laughs again and this time he stumbles up off the straw mattress and goes for his clothes. Percival is ready already, leaning on the door and grinning while Galahad hops around on one foot, pulling on his boots. He knows people in Camelot think he's aloof, but he's always on edge around them -- he doesn't know how to be easy around strangers. He doesn't know what to expect from them. He can't understand the rises and falls of their voices, the minutiae of their expressions. With Percival every small cadence is so familiar he thinks he could understand a hum or a sigh. He knows Percival as well as his psalter with the gold edges, as well as his catechism. He knows what it means when Percival laughs, when he shakes his long red-gold hair from his shoulders, when he slides off his horse midstream to grab a fish (he is the fastest person Galahad has ever known, his hands as quick as a blacksmith's strike), when he glances up at the sky -- all of it is language, and Galahad knows it all.

Because he knows it all, it's easy to let his guard down around Percival, who will laugh when Galahad is clumsy or silly but is never laughing at him. He isn't ever afraid of Percival. It's always all right.

Once he's got his boots laced Percival hands him his cloak and throws a pack over his shoulder.

"We have to get out of town a little, but I know the way."

Galahad doesn't say that Percival always knows the way, but he does. He has an unerring sense of direction, at least when they're outside, as if the earth or the trees are always guiding him in some way. Sometimes Galahad has no idea what landmarks he's using. It's not as if they're in the same parts of Britain where he grew up. The Welsh forests where Percival was a child are north of them now and weeks away.

They saddle their horses and Percival takes him up into the woods outside of town. The leaves underfoot have lost their crispness -- there's no snow on the ground now, but everything has frozen and thawed and frozen and thawed and now it's all soggy. The moon is all but gone, but Percival knows where he's going.

Galahad lets his fingers sink into the horse's mane and rubs a lock of it between his thumb and forefinger. The nuns always scolded him for touching too much. His hands are supposed to be still when not folded in prayer. Worrying at things is a bad habit. But when no one is looking (although someone is, of course, God is) he still falls into misbehavior, the hair coarse against his skin, as coarse as rope, tying him to the ground.

Percival draws his mare to a halt in the forest and slithers off her, his tunic riding up his chest. Galahad looks away. Percival is perfect except for this, and it isn't his fault.

"All right, here," he says, clearing the soggy leaves away from the ground. There's a dead tree across the path, its bark separated from its wood, speckled with lichens and starting to molder. Percival opens his pack and begins taking out candles, handing them to Galahad.

"We're supposed to go to church," Galahad says.

"I know, but you can do it."

"I can't." His voice feels faraway.

"You can do it." Percival takes his hand, the one that's not clasping five or six candles across his chest.

"We need a priest."

"We don't need a priest. You can do it." He squeezes Galahad's hand. "God loves you."

"That's different," he protests. "I can't bless things."

"You can do it. Try."

He wants to keep protesting, he wants to say no, but he can't say no to Percival. He's never had to. Percival always understands him, Percival never asks him for anything he can't do.

He swallows hard and shifts one of the candles into his hand. He looks up at Percival, and Percival grins at him and nods and squeezes his hand again, you can do it, and Galahad looks back at the candle.

"Now may your servant, Lord, according to your word, depart in exultation," he says -- and the candle bursts into flame.

Galahad looks up again, from the wax melting over his hand, and Claudius reaches out from where Percival was standing, putting his own hand to Galahad's burning face. His skin is cool.

"A radiant glory," Claudius says, his thumb brushing soft against the ridge of Galahad's cheek. His voice is dry, but gentle, as it always has been when he speaks to Galahad, regardless of who Galahad is or has been. "A light for revelation."

Behind them the horses stamp and whinny, frightened by the fire, their stirrups thumping loosely against their flanks. The candle burns higher and higher in Galahad's hand, but Claudius doesn't step away or move his hand.

Galahad, who has never been good at speaking, never been good at explaining himself, wants to overflow with words for Claudius, to say I'm sorry I tried to absolve you of sin. I know you don't repent of it. You don't have to. I don't expect anyone else to live like me. It's always been different for me, because I've always known what I was meant to do, and I don't have a choice, but I know everyone else has choices and I know you have a right to make whichever ones you want and it doesn't matter what I think is right because that's why God gave you free will and then let you go. I know you killed him and I don't hate you, I don't understand why you did it and it doesn't matter. It's not your fault I'm like this. It's not your fault. I don't hate you. Please don't leave me. Please don't hate me. Please forgive me.

The fire crackles in his ash-white hair and licks at the cuffs of Claudius' suit jacket. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know Claudius like Percival, and he can't read his expression or what's in his eyes -- it's like another language. Like hearing his father speak Breton with Bors or Lionel.

He wants to say I know when I was someone else I said I loved you, but I don't know if that's true any more and I don't want to lie to you. I want to tell you the truth. Even if I don't love you I want to be with you. You've been kind to me from the beginning. You're the first person I thought might understand me.

Claudius moves his hand away and Galahad follows him, as if he meant to push his face back into the touch like a dog, but Claudius is out of reach, so far out of reach that the fire is no longer lapping at him. He turns his signet ring on his finger, and keeps turning it until it expands, like a circlet being worked on a forge, spinning thinner and broader until it is a crown, studded with stars and rosemary. He watches Galahad. His face is unreadable.

"Wake up," says Claudius. "Wake up."

Galahad wakes.