Claudius keeps Galahad's hand in his and lends his shoulder, as if to bear the cross of him. He asks nothing, not even with his hands -- he'd have to let go of Galahad to sign the questions, and his grip is still tight and grateful. Knowing himself, his fingers would flicker too fast, cycling possibilities, the way they do when one idea tumbles after another. They'd all be things Galahad might need: a bath with warm water to bring the heat back into his body, a change of clothes to replace his scorched ones, something soft to touch and ground himself. It's better to give Galahad those things, one by one. For now, he'll lead Galahad back to their room, all the while speaking soft praises.