[
The Water-Horse] by Thamiris
Gawain/Green Knight.
Beautiful prose, and a sweet story.
Bors, who'd been warring with a lamprey in galytyne, plants a trio of sloppy kisses on Gawain's cheek, then says not unkindly, "Don't look so wounded. It's all in jest, and, besides, you did well for one so young. I would've taken the belt myself and still flinched at the blade."
In the past year, Bors has slain two giants, a dragon, a boar, and four men; he wouldn't flinch at a blade wielded by the Devil. Effortlessly brave, just like Lancelot. Neither imagines death as anything but an easy transition from Arthur's army to God's. Shortly after Gawain's return from the Green Chapel, his pride scarred as his neck, Gawain had asked Lancelot what ran through his mind before a battle.
Lancelot, surveying the preparations for the Assumption Day tournament, had answered without turning from the window. "How best to serve the one who rules me."
That's how life is for men like Lancelot and Bors: a narrow window high in Arthur's castle, a straightforward view organized by iron bars. With his eyes closed, Gawain kisses Bors three times on the cheek.
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