He didn't, and he'd felt it keenly. He imagines keeping his vigil here, watching the dawn light spread in the sky with his back to the trunk, listening to the sounds of leaves rustling and the forest waking. It's hard not to imagine Percival, too, naming the insects and birds -- Percival would lie in the grass and talk about God in ways that Galahad has never been able to imagine Him, as a God of endless love and compassion and loving-kindness, whose sacrifices make meaning, not as a Father who has to dictate his every move because he might stray.

Because he has strayed.

"Thank you," he says, so quietly, so flatly.