He never suspected.

I hinted vaguely, danced along the edge of honesty. Toyed with the thought, occasionally.

So unassuming, Galahad. I'm almost disappointed. Never could tell my lies from jests.

"Do you even believe in… salvation and that Christian heaven, some idyllic afterworld?"

"I find it a great effort to believe in this one," Galahad laughs and gestures awkwardly, a nervous flurry of motion. "Yet it seems to be here, so why should I trust my skepticism about other worlds? Don't you believe?"

No, you fool.

He knows he's not the only liar. Though unsure where my lies are, he certainly knows they exist. But does he believe I can't hear his every unspoken thought? Galahad's a wretched hypocrite.

"I don't believe anything." Skepticism is so much less effortful than harboring strong moral scruples.

As usual, Galahad puzzles over everything I say. We sit in amiable silence; I wait while he thoughtfully examines my rhetoric for deeper meaning that isn't there. I grin indulgently, lazily, and he changes the topic.

I told him out of curiosity once, bluntly. But Galahad's too pious to accept the truth. Those such as he with strong religious convictions are, I propose, religious convicts. They never see things clearly. Though I expected it, his naivete was disheartening - his silly insistence that I knew not what I said, and his sulking that it was a cruel, unfunny joke.

Who said I seek to be funny?