If the End Be Harsher, Hold It No Wonder

Gawain sits upon the hillock, brown with dead grass and the memory of summer. The trees at the foot of the hill are bare, their branches as grey and tangled as his hair. As the present, the past.

Somewhere, out there in the fog, stands Arthur’s army, and Lancelot’s castle. The worn old sword in his weathered hands seems small on that scale, and victory as far away as spring.

He closes his misted eyes a moment, and lets the memories rush through like the autumn wind, leaving him chilled with their passing. How he’d struck the head from the Green Knight, and agreed to be struck in turn. History now, a tale, a fable, fading with the seasons.

He opens his eyes and thinks he can see the Green Knight there in the fog, a mossy mountain of a man with a windblown willow of a beard. A vaguely-remembered shadow.

Gawain nods. He does not mind. Picks up his shield, dons his helm. There will be victory, or there will not. No, there will not. There was never any chance of victory; like his bargain with the Green Knight, the result was destined from the start. And he does not mind. Soon this all will be nothing, a tale, a fable, the memory of wind. And he does not mind.