He curls there like a cat would, stealing heat and holding it in, drawing comfort from the solid body under him. It's too many thoughts, as always, and a bright streak of self-awareness that's too blinding in the dark to chart a clear path by. To thine own self be true is the maxim, but Claudius never found it useful. He doesn't know what the truth of himself is, whether he's come closer to it or farther away. But he closes his eyes, and comes to a conclusion. "Whenever thou dost need to speak on something," he says, "know that thou canst speak to me. I will try always to understand thee, even when thou know'st not thyself what thou art feeling. And thou canst chide me for condescension, as thou need'st."