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|Gawain the True||
Posted: Dec 20, 2017 | 8:07 pm
Hard footsteps on stone floors. That is what Gawain's life had become. The castle seemed to get larger every passing day... or perhaps that was all an illusion, created by the fact that the building was becoming less populated. Hallways stretched on forever, and the eternal night outside, kissed by the blood red moonlight, inked its way down those halls. The fires of the torches and the braziers did little to illuminate or warm the building. That did not stop Gawain from wearing his armor on a daily regiment, though.
He had come to enjoy the cold. The cold had a numbing effect on his body that he found to be an ever present relief. He could place his hands against the skin of his chest and find his heart beating in a chilled house. He only ever undressed when he slept now, but he expected his staff to be ready with the armor after his morning meal, promptly and without fail. The morning meal was a formality, anyway, something he continued to do out of duty to keep up his strength or his Liege. His Queen. His Mother. Wearing the armor had been hard at first, but he was strong, and as the days pressed on he became stronger. Before long, the pain stopped...
The last thing that had warmed any part of him has been blood. A part of him regretted not splashing any of the blood of Raven against his skin in their litter encounter. But the heart's blood at made Gawain's sword sing, even as he returned it to its sheath. It had been with a mountain of regret that he had cleaned it within the hours that came, and resharpened the edge of the blade. Death always dulled the edge of the blade, and it was important to keep the edges sharp. Even the slightest encounter to weaken it, and so he tended to the blade. The blood did not tarnish the metal, though he did sometimes still see it out of the corner of his eye, ruby and silver in the fire light. It had excited him... it had proved something to him... Footsteps. More footsteps. It was impossible to sneak up on him anymore. All of him was a creature honed for one purpose: The service of his Queen. Why should he care that his skin had become waxen in appearance if it meant that other feared him by glance alone? Why should he worry about tending to his hair when he had other duties more important than his vanity? Vain... that was what he had been before... They had once said he was the most beautiful of the knights; the one to rival the Sun. What need was there for a Sun now? None, in this world of eternal moonlight.
There was someone there, and he stopped. He waited. And he smiled.
the sun has set
tag: @[Mordred] / word count: 480 / also open to anyone who might find themselves in Morgause's palace