Archive of Our Own ^beta

Later, much later, Gawain will say it was a curse.

It wasn’t a curse.

“We wanted to tell you,” Bertilak says. He’s still tall and imposing, ruddy beard sprinkled with melting snow. “We needed to know your worth. Your heart.”

Gawain stares up at him uncomprehendingly. The axe lays abandoned in the snow. Bertilak extends a hand, and Gawain takes it, swaying as he rises to his feet, one hand pressed against the superficial wound at his neck.

His hands are lean with cold, and Bertilak pulls the ring off Gawain’s finger with ease. Gawain looks down at it, an innocuous gold band and twinkling red gem, and feels nothing but shame. There's no worth in cheating death with lies and deception, with a talisman given by the wife of another.

Gawain doesn’t go straight back to Camelot. Later he’ll say he did, but it’s a lie. It’s midwinter and sleeting, sharp bits of ice pelting against stone walls and glass windows. The fire in his chambers is warm, but Gawain is still so cold.

It’s too revealing, baring his neck to a woman who has thrice tried to kill his king. Gawain does it anyway. He should have died today, had been ready to die; an entire year spent contemplating his mortality—yet he's still alive.

“Why did you do it?” he asks. The salve is cold and pungent, applied with a steady hand.

Morgan looks young. He hasn’t seen her in years, but she looks the same. The shadows must be hiding wrinkles near her eyes and mouth; it is sorcery not to age.

“Why did you accept the challenge?” she asks in return. Gawain has no answer. He's tired of riddles and question games.

“It was my duty," he says a tad too sharply. The salve stings his flesh, but doesn’t absolve him of the shame. He failed his duty, took the coward’s way.

Morgan ignores his wince. “And this was mine.”

Bertilak laughs when Gawain tries to apologise.

“It was a test of your heart,” he says. “And I, for one, am very glad you survived.”

He spears a slice of venison and deposits it on Gawain’s plate, seemingly oblivious that he shares a meal with the man who once tried to kill him; the man he tried to kill earlier that day. Gawain forces down a few bites, chases it down with drink, and studies his host.

Bertilak’s hand brushes against Morgan’s shoulder, fingers grazing her throat, nonchalantly intimate. She leans into the touch, and Gawain is struck at how brazen they are in their indiscretions.

Morgan catches his gaze. “Are you plotting my beheading?” she asks cooly.

Gawain flushes. He still dreams about that sometimes; his mother and tangled bedsheets and so much blood. “She should not have laid with him. She should have respected our family’s honour.”

“Does that mean you are within your rights to behead Queen Guinevere? She certainly isn't faithful, even your own brother has lain with her.”

“Perhaps you think too little of your nephew,” Lady Bertilak ventures to say. Gawain turns to look at her. She seems unconcerned by the interactions of her lord and their guest, licks her knife clean and observes Gawain mildly. She’s waiting for an answer, he realizes.

“I have no wish to cause trouble,” Gawain murmurs, ducking his head to appear less of a threat. Lady Bertilak smiles benevolently at him, and Bertilak chuckles in amusement, carving himself another slice of tender meat. Morgan watches with an unreadable gaze that makes Gawain keep reaching for more mead.

He can’t sleep. His belly aches for something that isn’t food, and the winter’s wind harasses the castle walls with a mourner’s wail. The fire burns amber and Gawain lies in bed staring at flickering flames that curve and fall like the arc of a sword.

Gawain’s sluggish the next day, sore in a way that doesn’t befit a knight. He slumps in his chair watching Bertilak inspect arrows for the next hunt.

“Why was it a Green Knight?” he asks, rubbing his hand together. The hall is frigid; cold air and faint daylight permeating the tall uncovered windows.

“You’ll have to ask the Lady Morgan.” Bertilak presses the tip of an arrow against the calloused pad of his thumb.

Gawain already knows he’ll do no such thing. He won’t play into one of Morgan’s games; won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing and understanding and hurting. She’s probably already aware that his heart gave pause the first time the Bertilak’s Green Knight rode into Arthur’s court with the name of a dead man on his tongue.

“My brother also met a Green Knight. It was his test; it proved what a great knight he was.” He presses down the surge of hurt—because he had failed where Gareth succeeded—it’s easier remembering the anger, the need to revenge Gareth’s death. And Gaheris. And Agravain. Gawain picks up an arrow with ease he doesn’t feel and copies Bertilak; his finger is soft and the sharp arrow tip draws blood.

“She appeared two summers ago,” Lady Bertilak says when Gawain asks. He's in her chambers, uncomfortable but seeking answers. “My lord had suffered a hunting accident and she offered assistance. We became quite enamored with her, and extended an invitation for her to stay once he was healed.”

“And you don't mind?” Gawain asked. His thoughts drift to the caress, Morgan’s hooded eyes unsubtly glancing up at Bertilak.

Lady Bertilak laughs, her finger loosely marking a page in her prayer book. “Why should I?” She leans closer, closing the gap between their chairs, eyes steady as she touches a delicate hand on his knee. “There are no false promises or deceptions between us any longer.”

The kiss is firm, but gentle. Gawain stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Is this a kiss to be given to your lord?” he asks, uncertain of the game she plays.

Lady Bertilak shakes her head. “This is just for you, sir knight, although you are at liberty to share if you wish.”

Gawain remembers the scratch of Bertilak's beard against his cheek, thinks of those same lips touching Morgan. He swallows hard. “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not.”

The guilt he expects to feel doesn't manifest. He initiates another kiss, feels nothing but the rough skin of bitten lip and her warm pulse beneath his fingers; the prayer book lays forgotten on her lap.

“Three brothers dead by the blade of another,” Morgan says that night, inspecting the neck wound. It's sore, but hurts less than the words she chooses.

“I still have Mordred.”

“Yes,” she says and, “He loved Guinevere once—or she loved him—and love makes people unreliable.”

Gawain flexes the muscles in his hand, knuckles white with restraint. “Mordred’s one of the most reliable individuals I know.” Mordred is family. Morgan and Arthur are family, too, but Mordred understands having to prove worth.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “More reliable than Arthur?”

He refuses the bait. “Arthur is my King.”

“So he is but how many deaths will be by Guinevere’s hand?” She presses the bandage against his neck, linen soaking in the salve.

Gawain shakes his head, straightening. “It’s Lancelot; he must pay.”

“You don’t believe a woman’s worth?”

Gawain licks his lips. He suspects Morgan, like his mother, has much to say on the value of women. “Guinevere’s hand didn’t wield the sword.”

Morgan glances at his neck pointedly. “There are many ways to kill that don’t involve a sword.”

It’s true, but the sword is the proper way to die. A noble death by a knightly weapon, blood draining from the body, no chance of a resurrected life after death.

Lady Bertilak is waiting in his bed, hair cascading down bare shoulders and biting her lip against the cold.

“My lady,” Gawain says, stopping short and holding the candle high.

She blinks at him, raises the edge of the brocade green coverlet. “Come to bed,” she says. “My husband is occupied elsewhere tonight.”

It's a choice; it’s always a choice. He blows the candle out with a short puff of air and slips in beside her.

The sleet and snow tapers into rain, thawing ground impassable with mud.

“Stay a little longer,” Bertilak entreats. “It does my wife good to have you here.”

Gawain thinks of Lady Bertilak beneath him, her arched back and soft gasps, and decidedly does not flush.

“I have no wish to impose on your hospitality.”

Bertilak gives pause, his large hand wraps around Gawain's upper arm. “You've done no such thing,” he remarks. He gazes at Gawain steadily. “You are a virtuous knight, a chivalrous sort, and I am most fortunate to count you among my guests.”

“Of those I am neither, were I a better knight I would have shared with you the ring, would have bravely faced my death, but I thank you for your kind words.”

“You have a heart, Sir Gawain, a desire to live that wars with your desire for honour. Those are traits hard to find in a good knight. Never apologise for them. You honoured the wishes of my wife—an act many men would not have obliged.”

“I should have honoured the wishes of her husband, my lord,” Gawain dares to say. Bertilak’s hand still heavy on his chest.

Bertilak chuckles, and Gawain is reminded how, despite the lying and deception, he genuinely likes the man. “Have Lady Morgan and my wife taught you nothing? Women are a great deal more than simply an idle threat.” He taps his finger against Gawain’s chest once more before lifting his hand. Gawain's breath comes easier, feels like absolution.

His rooms are warm, too warm almost, and sleep isn't easy. Gawain kicks his foot out from underneath the heavy covers. In his dreams are Gaheris and Gareth, proud in polished chainmail, shouting, their swords drawn and at the ready. He’s been dreaming about them for days.

“Has the Lady Morgan upset you?” Lady Bertilak asks, fingers deftly picking at her embroidery.

Gawain spares her a glance. He’s not sure why she’s here; the ruse has ended. There’s no need to seduce him further.

“The Lady Morgan enjoys asking vexing questions,” he replies after a moment’s careful consideration. They are both guests of Lord Bertilak; it’s not his place to question Bertilak’s company of choice.

“Do you find that?” Lady Bertilak ties a knot neatly with her needle and string. “I would have said she was heartsick.”

He scoffs in disbelief, can’t reconcile the pain of an aching heart with his formidable aunt.

He shares a drinking cup with Morgan, blood wine staining their teeth and lips.

“What ails you?” he asks as the minstrel begins another song, face grotesque with unsung emotion. Gawain can't look; would rather not listen. Courtly love and noble intentions have no place here.

“A great many things, knight, but perhaps not so many as ail you.” The soft steadiness in Morgan's voice is disconcerting, tongue rounding vowels to match the ballad.

Gawain looks down the table, catching glances of laughing ladies, the candlelight reflecting on gold brocade dresses and roughly cut jewels.“Look around,” he says with levity he doesn’t feel. “What could trouble me here?”

Morgan lets the question rest for so long that he thinks she won't answer. The last melodic notes reverberate through the hall, settling uncomfortably under his skin, and she leans close, lips brushing against his ears. “Only the unquiet weight you carry in your heart.”

Gawain swallows at the uncomfortable truth, and turns away.

He catches her in one of the passageways. “What of my heart?” he asks. “Lady Bertilak says yours is afflicted.”

Morgan arches an eyebrow at his incredulous tone. “And you do not believe I have a heart?”

Gawain bows his head. “With all fairness, my lady, you seem compelled to act in a heartless manner.”

“Does acting heartless signify I am? And is it such a terrible thing to be heartless? Hearts are simple goods; they can be bought and sold, pillaged and stolen. They are hostages of situations beyond their control. I think you understand this, knight, so tell me: wouldn't you rather be without a heart?”

It's a question Gawain refuses to answer. “And was yours stolen?” he asks instead. “Or is it a natural state?”

“Such imprudence,” Morgan exclaims, but she sounds more amused than upset.

He lowers his gaze from her face to the floor in apology, refuses to say the words.

“I had a heart,” Morgan says after a pause. Her words are slow, soft and somber. “I had a heart and I gave it freely.”

Gawain chances a glance at her, but she isn’t looking at him. She’s turned away, the shadows make her profile look ashen and drawn.

“His name was Guiomar. He was Guinevere’s cousin, as fair as she but twice as worthy. She didn’t approve, so she stole him away; leaving me nothing but an emptiness in my ribs, and a child in my womb.” Morgan turns suddenly, and Gawain is struck by the passion in her eyes, visible even in low light. It’s persuasive, even before she says, “I don’t hate Arthur; I fear for him.”

In his dreams it is a cool morning, trousers soaked with dew and feet curling into mud. He's eleven, disoriented by heavy fog and wandering lost over hills he knows so well.

Agravain's voice calling his name breaks through the fog accompanied by Mordred's high pitched wail. Gawain shouts in response, but there's no reply. He turns in circles, thinks he sees the bright flash of red from Gareth's tunic, but it disappears before he can latch onto it.

The slap of feet and sloshing mud, and then he's knocked over, Gaheris sitting on his back crowing with laughter. Gawain can't see them, face-first in mud, but he can hear them as they pile on top of him, knees and elbows digging into soft muscle. Agravain's giggles overlap with Mordred’s coos of delight and Gareth's gentle mocking.

He wakes slowly, still feeling their warm weight on his back and the laughter ringing in his ears.

“You’re leaving.” Morgan doesn’t sound particularly surprised, just disappointed.

“My king expects me,” Gawain checks the buckles on his bag, and gives his horse an absentminded pat. Gringolet has been treated well, is now larger and more rounded than when Gawain left Camelot.

“You’re returning to a man who was too cowardly to defend his kingdom.”

He has no answer other than, “He’s my king and my uncle.”

“He’s my brother,” she returns, “but that doesn’t make him right.”

Gawain doesn’t respond, busying himself with tightening straps that have already been tightened. He can feel Morgan’s gaze on his face. It feels almost kind, similar to how his mother used to watch him play dress in chainmail when he was younger.

She pulls a flat package from inside her fur-lined cloak, and hands it to him. “Take this. No harm will come to you when you wear it.”

Gawain slips it into his saddlebag; he has no intention of using it.

In Camelot, Gawain tells them it was a curse. A trick to test the worth of Arthur’s court, a beheading game with unwilling opponents. He talks of merrymaking, seductions, and deceptions. He shows them the green girdle, says it saved his life, does not mention who it came from.

Arthur’s knights craft green banners to wear, never the wiser. Somewhere, Gawain suspects, Morgan is laughing.