Disclaimers: for all chapters of the story and for the story as a whole (if it is ever finished), standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: this is for Draejonsoul, who made me think. It would possibly evolve into crossover with another fandom here on ; certainly I had a lot of fun planning it… for now, let it be a major AU of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and a possibly canon-incompatible version of Highlander: The Series universe. Half of my mistakes originate from the fact that I do not have a complete collection of HL eps. I'm working on it.
Rated for violence.
The prologue is told by a random Watcher who died struggling to perform his duties.
Prologue. A Champion Defeated.
England, sixth century AD
The river we passed yesterday left marks on the oaks' trunks in the spring tide, as it does every year. The lines are as high as my breast.
I am not in the danger of drowning, though; it's winter. The glade is eerily circular, the boughs above creak, though there is no wind, and I see in my mind bears watching from the gloom, one breath away from ripping me limb by limb, their coats fringed with dirty icicles, their eyes idle and indulgent. The horses are still, though, and snoring faintly. The beasts know no fear.
My master knew no fear, and now he lies in his shallow grave. It was hard to dig as it is, and even if there were any stones to pile, I'd freeze to death if I were to plow the snow searching for them. The world has narrowed down to a scroll in my saddle-bag since I'd begged my lord to drop the challenge and run.
"Why would I run," Gawain said, smiling tolerantly, "if I trust in our Lord's mercy? I do not wish to live in dishonour."
I kneel awkwardly, falling on all fours when I slip in manure, and curse the dirt digging into my unfeeling hands. It is a sacrilege, I should pray for my friend's soul, wherever it went, but I wail and spit every curse and every blessing I know into the trampled snow. I don't look at the cross, which used to be Gawain's sword. When the winter passes, and then water, I'd come back for the body, to give it a decent burial. It might be against the rules, but I wouldn't likely meet Another anytime soon.
Maybe never. Maybe, I'll just die a dog's death.
My arms hurt, and my heart hurts; and though shame grabs me by the throat, I call all Gods Untrue to welcome Sir Gawain in their heaven, because it is where he belongs. A heathen from outer lands.
I had Sir Gawain's Chronicle read to me twice all those years ago. It was high summer, with birds a-singing, buttercups gleaming like the finest gems, and there I sat before some sickly cleric who accused the fairest knight in the whole kingdom (save Sir Lancelot, who is one of a kind) of the worst felony imaginable: of living a charmed life.
I could have killed the worm then and there. I should have. Was Gawain's honour to be blemished? A nephew of our King. I admired him; everybody admired him.
And I betrayed him. By learning the art of writing; by descending time and again into the dank catacombs where we entertained ourselves by tales most unholy, yet so true... By spying and recording - even to the end, to his last battle. I am Judas the Knowing, and my worst sin is that I haven't done anything. A sword-bearer who never fought.
For I am - was - a Watcher, one whose purpose is to observe a life of a creature much like a Man, but Immortal. They are an ancient Race, and their War is not ours; though they live among us and hide skillfully; no craft too mean for them. They can survive almost everything, save if you chop their head from their shoulders, and invoke our God's Wrath upon your own. I have seen it happen twice; a lightning strikes him who took the head of the Immortal, and leaves a man helpless, sobbing and crying. But our Lord is merciful; He spares the life of the kneeling offender. He spared Gawain's life.
Until yesterday.
Was it indeed only a day ago? I lift up my head, and the shadows are nearer. I must leave; it's almost dark. There is no place for me to go: the castle where we rested until Christmas is gone. Witchery. I feel it in my very bones. We were betrayed there - by offers too generous to decline gracefully, by wine and laughter and gentle company; and he had felt it, even said something about this not being his choice, but his pride kept him from refuting a challenge he couldn't possibly win, issued by a foe even less vulnerable than him, who had known where to strike the deadly strike. Against all odds, Gawain stood fast. He was a true Champion; he always hoped.
And yet, when the time came, he sent me away.
I mount; the glinting sword stands slightly askew, but I can't stick it into the frozen ground any deeper. Even if it isn't there when I return, I shall find the grave.
I turn away from the round glade, take my poor master's charger's reins, and head for Camelot. I have faced evil greater than wolves and boars and bears, and was not afraid; I shall come home, and tell the tale of his heroic death, and give his shield to his uncle.
I am so cold.
Weep for thy brother, o good sirs, for his burden was too great...
***
The body of the faithful servant, who had frozen to death and remained nameless, was later discovered by a knight errant – a foreigner traveling under the name of Sir Timothy Literate, who had by then been beaten by most of other knights in the not-inconsiderable kingdom. Sir Timothy was the laughing stock of local sword-wielding population (in fact, he suffered the nickname of Timothy the Stinkhorn), but somehow nobody recognized him when he took the old shield of Sir Gawain as his own.
Per chance, he had known the unfortunate knight, and his fencing style; per chance, they had once been close.
The only thing his contemporaries knew for sure was that the brave Sir Gawain had never again returned to King Arthur's court. Several years and dozens of daring deeds later, he had disappeared from the face of the earth.
And a script was added to the pile of other scripts somewhere in the Watcher's lair.