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Essay On It Is A Curse In The Curse Of Gawain

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Later, much later, Gawain will say it was a curse. It wasn’t a curse. -- “We wanted to tell you,” Bertilak says. He’s still tall and imposing, ruddy beard sprinkled with melting snow. “We needed to know your worth. Your heart.” Gawain stares up at him uncomprehendingly. The axe lays abandoned in the snow. Bertilak extends a hand, and Gawain takes it, swaying as he rises to his feet, one hand pressed against the superficial wound at his neck. His hands are lean with cold, and Bertilak pulls the ring off Gawain’s finger with ease. Gawain looks down at it, an innocuous gold band and twinkling red gem, and feels nothing but shame. There's no worth in cheating death with lies and deception, with a talisman given by the wife of another. -- Gawain doesn’t go straight back to Camelot. Later he’ll say he did, but it’s a lie. It’s midwinter and sleeting, sharp bits of ice pelting against stone walls and glass windows. The fire in his chambers is warm, but Gawain is still so cold. -- It’s too revealing, baring his neck to a woman who has thrice tried to kill his king. Gawain does it anyway. He should have died today, had been ready to die; an entire year spent contemplating his mortality—yet he's still alive. “Why did you do it?” he asks. The salve is cold and pungent, applied with a steady hand. Morgan looks young. He hasn’t seen her in years, but she looks the same. The shadows must be hiding wrinkles near her eyes and mouth; it is sorcery not to age. "Why did you accept the

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