[Intro] And then the sun shone in Dover, at noon
The words flow from his trembling hand, blood smears onto the shaking page as the battle slowly dies out. The Channel's waters are calm as he writes his dying words.and he hath let crown him king, and would have wedded my lady Queen Guenever ….
How could he? He is my brother, how could he? As the quill scratched the paper, Gawain's hand trembled. One more effort, to keep telling the tale - it was he, Gawain of the shameful green girdle, who had broken the Round Table asunder. He, who had called for arms in anger, he - begad, but let not my brother be slain in shame...
And so the tenth day of May last past, my lord Arthur and we all landed upon them at Dover ...
And the nameless knight - who was he? The boat rocked under Gawain, some water splashed upon the shore, and he hissed as more blood spurted from his wound. Lancelot's jab, earned in the judicial duel - ah, but to have died then...
there it misfortuned me to be stricken upon thy stroke. …
But it's not so shameful, to die killed by Lancelot, is it? The same blade which killed my brothers - ah, it was a fair battle, onto which he did me mercy, but would that his hand had been less kind and more vengeful. Ah, Lancelot - my friend and my model, murderer of my brothers, courteous onto she whom you may not court.
written with mine own hand, and so subscribed with part of my heart’s blood. ….
-- his mind drifts, he blinks blood, whose it is does not matter - the day the king wedded dame Guinevere - the day he was made a knight... the memory hits him, suddenly. And how he slew a lady himself, in his young and brash days - begad, it was ill done, but I swore on the Evangiles, he reminds himself, and am I not in keeping of my oath? My brother has slain no dame... brother against brother is an iller deed yet, let me die, then... but he trudges on, and keeps writing all the same, until his hand gives out.
The Host tastes nothing on his tongue, and he can barely see the King, hunched over his form... Cornwall - did the King not show him trust, then? The sun is high in the sky, and Gawain, murmurs, “Would that I had been a greater knight,” but no sound escapes his lips and instead he feels himself yielding. It is not so painful anymore, the gash on his side, and he can barely smell the blood on his armour. The bright hour of noon is upon him, and he sighs, thinking of his wife and sons, just once, praying that they ---
But there are no Pearly gates, no wizened Saint-Peter with the keys, no wrathful God to lay count to his deeds, ill or fair.
The horse neighs, nudges at his face gently with soft nostrils that smell of foul grass. He frowns. Gringalet? “You have the most terrible smell, even in Heaven, horse,” Gawain grumbles at his attention. The steed shifts, seems to laugh, even. The knight stands stiffly. His armor is dirty beyond words, but he feels fresh and unharmed. And he has his horse, he muses as he reaches to lean against the brown warhorse. He never expected a horse to follow him in the afterlife, even one of valour such as his. It is a strange comfort.
He looks around and takes stock - a lake, vast grounds, a forest and... a strange, large homestead, aye, a castle, even, but of a make which he cannot find pleasing to the eye, nor define. This was definitely not how he pictured the afterlife.
Name: Sir Gawain of Orkney (also answers to Gwalchmei, Gawan, Gavan, Gauvain, Walewein.)
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Media: Literature!
Other relevant info: So, Medraut's half-brother Gawain. He's taken very shortly post-death, he's unharmed but his armor is covered in blood and very confused. His horse is around, which Doth Not Help. He is mostly a Malorian Gawain, but the typist more or less melded his other sources together, so this Gawain is also the Gauvain from Beroul, for example. See his profile for details. There is a lot of canon, so I tried to list what would be the pivotal points in his characterization, but his biography on the wiki or his profile is by no means intended to be an exhaustive listing of all that happened in his life.
The first commenter acts as a welcoming committee. All following interactions are deemed later in the day, when the character is settled.
How could he? He is my brother, how could he? As the quill scratched the paper, Gawain's hand trembled. One more effort, to keep telling the tale - it was he, Gawain of the shameful green girdle, who had broken the Round Table asunder. He, who had called for arms in anger, he - begad, but let not my brother be slain in shame...
And so the tenth day of May last past, my lord Arthur and we all landed upon them at Dover ...
And the nameless knight - who was he? The boat rocked under Gawain, some water splashed upon the shore, and he hissed as more blood spurted from his wound. Lancelot's jab, earned in the judicial duel - ah, but to have died then...
there it misfortuned me to be stricken upon thy stroke. …
But it's not so shameful, to die killed by Lancelot, is it? The same blade which killed my brothers - ah, it was a fair battle, onto which he did me mercy, but would that his hand had been less kind and more vengeful. Ah, Lancelot - my friend and my model, murderer of my brothers, courteous onto she whom you may not court.
written with mine own hand, and so subscribed with part of my heart’s blood. ….
-- his mind drifts, he blinks blood, whose it is does not matter - the day the king wedded dame Guinevere - the day he was made a knight... the memory hits him, suddenly. And how he slew a lady himself, in his young and brash days - begad, it was ill done, but I swore on the Evangiles, he reminds himself, and am I not in keeping of my oath? My brother has slain no dame... brother against brother is an iller deed yet, let me die, then... but he trudges on, and keeps writing all the same, until his hand gives out.
The Host tastes nothing on his tongue, and he can barely see the King, hunched over his form... Cornwall - did the King not show him trust, then? The sun is high in the sky, and Gawain, murmurs, “Would that I had been a greater knight,” but no sound escapes his lips and instead he feels himself yielding. It is not so painful anymore, the gash on his side, and he can barely smell the blood on his armour. The bright hour of noon is upon him, and he sighs, thinking of his wife and sons, just once, praying that they ---
But there are no Pearly gates, no wizened Saint-Peter with the keys, no wrathful God to lay count to his deeds, ill or fair.
The horse neighs, nudges at his face gently with soft nostrils that smell of foul grass. He frowns. Gringalet? “You have the most terrible smell, even in Heaven, horse,” Gawain grumbles at his attention. The steed shifts, seems to laugh, even. The knight stands stiffly. His armor is dirty beyond words, but he feels fresh and unharmed. And he has his horse, he muses as he reaches to lean against the brown warhorse. He never expected a horse to follow him in the afterlife, even one of valour such as his. It is a strange comfort.
He looks around and takes stock - a lake, vast grounds, a forest and... a strange, large homestead, aye, a castle, even, but of a make which he cannot find pleasing to the eye, nor define. This was definitely not how he pictured the afterlife.
Name: Sir Gawain of Orkney (also answers to Gwalchmei, Gawan, Gavan, Gauvain, Walewein.)
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Media: Literature!
Other relevant info: So, Medraut's half-brother Gawain. He's taken very shortly post-death, he's unharmed but his armor is covered in blood and very confused. His horse is around, which Doth Not Help. He is mostly a Malorian Gawain, but the typist more or less melded his other sources together, so this Gawain is also the Gauvain from Beroul, for example. See his profile for details. There is a lot of canon, so I tried to list what would be the pivotal points in his characterization, but his biography on the wiki or his profile is by no means intended to be an exhaustive listing of all that happened in his life.
The first commenter acts as a welcoming committee. All following interactions are deemed later in the day, when the character is settled.