Ofcourse there would always be those giddy, giggling girls and young woman surrounding him
Ofcourse there would always be those giddy, giggling girls and young woman surrounding him.
And yes, I am also perfectly aware that he is,…let´s say a very ´loved´ person, if you know what I mean.
In their eyes he would always be: 'one of them Sarmatians', 'one of those infamous knights', 'the man who was fairly known for his short but very 'passionate'relationships', 'that fierce and loyal fighter' 'Sir Gawain of the round table'.
None of the people who think of him in that way can ever know him for what he really is.
Gawain.
Just Gawain.
I don't think even his fellow knights know the 'real' man behind those long tangled curls, those hard blue eyes, those calloused hands, stained with the blood of the enemy.
Maybe only Galahad, but I'm not sure he is the one who knows as much about him as me.
People berate me for socializing with him, for being seen with him, but neither of us care.
Ofcourse there's talk about us behind our backs, but atleast Gawain doesn't seem to mind too much.
The townspeople, especially all the girls that fancy him, tease me about him, tell me the most horrible things.
I try really hard not to believe them.
Am I not the one who hauls him to his bed when he's too drunk to even function?
Am I not the one who combs out those greasy tangled locks, and then gently washes them with hot water and soap?
Am I not the one who stitches up his tunics, although not very thoroughly, even if he doesn't ask me to?
Am I not the one who makes his cot?
Am I not the one who he talks to?, admits his weaknesses to?, who he trusts completely? And vice versa?
Am I not the one who he sometimes, late at night crawls next to?, only to be comforted after a nightmare or a fading memory of home?
Am I not the one who he cries in front of?
Am I not the one who washes the blood from his battle-struck body, trying to soak away his guilt and anger?
Am I not the one he caresses softly, when he thinks I am asleep?
Is it not my head on his shoulder when he feels bad?
Is it not my hand in his when we hope no one's watching?
Is it not his lips upon mine in the dark corners of the fort?
Are those not my legs wrapped around his hips in those short moments just before sunrise?
Are those not his eyes that watch my every movement?
Is it not my heart that aches for his return?
Are those not our voices in the cold night air when we laugh, tease, cry and fight?
Was it not his hand that struck my cheek?
Was it not my first that punched his stomach?
Is he not the one who always comes back to me? Thinking everything will be fine?
Is it not me, who loves him too much for my own good?
Is it not him who cannot commit? Cannot get married? And cannot give everything to me?
Is it not us who everyone envies?
Is it not our lovechild inside of me?
Is it not he, who loves me?