The warmth of the parcels surprise Claudius -- he sets one down, then unwraps the other. No sooner does he start to devise words of thanks than he recalls their promises. No thanks are necessary. He takes a bite, and finds it tears easily, with the same delectable texture as some of Laertes's or Galahad's pastries. "It's a remedy book," he says, covering his mouth as he chews. Thanks or no, he's still civilized. "Or akin to one. Rather than a list of recipes and aliments, it's a list of questions meant to inspire self-reflection, with some rather pointed suggestions. Evidently, avoidance is symptom of my aliment." He rolls his eyes at that, because it really is obnoxious. He thought avoidance was his best coping strategy. "It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is a mouthful."