Gawain the Deadman

When the Green Knight entered the castle and challenged Arthur, I knew it would be my opportunity to shine. You see, I’ve always had a unique place in the King’s court. Our blood relation ensures my place there, but I had always lived in the shadow of my uncle; unable to make a proper name for myself. I was a knight without identity. I’m not dashing like Lancelot or brutish like Kay. I am Gawain; the modest, the humble, the unremarkable.

While I don’t spend all my time worrying about what others think of me, you can understand why it can be bothersome to be labeled as a sidekick in your own adventures. Everyone talks about Culhwch and his quest to earn the heart of the giant’s daughter. They go on and on about Lancelot’s journey to rescue Guinevere from the clutches of Meleagant. But no one ever seems to remember that I was there too. Is it truly so selfish to dream of being the hero of your own story?

I knew that if I killed this mysterious aggressor, I would finally have my own tale to tell. They’d be talking about Gawain and the Green Knight for years to come. So I stood up, stared him down, and swung with all my might. And in a single blow, I decapitated him. For a moment, I felt a feeling of pride as the room cheered me on. But then, he rose to his feet with his head in his hand and said he’d be returning the blow in a year’s time.

I was going to be known alright. I’d be Gawain; the fool, the headless, the deadman. I’d have to hold up my end of the deal or they’d surely label me a coward, a fate far worse than death. Maybe I should’ve let someone else that the challenge instead. I’m sure Lancelot would look just as handsome split into two pieces.

But alas. A year from today, that Knight is going to knock my head from my shoulders for sure. What a shit way that’d be to end a story.