Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

This is in part inspired by Melosine and her depiction of Gawain in her Book of Memories, by all the reviewers of Cerys at Knight who wish Gawain happiness from his trials of late,by Wild Woman with her description of Gawain in the baths and as a young mischief maker, and to lilstrummrgrl527 who made me see Gawain as a "hippie-lion".

I was driving home tonight and thinking about how he would be the type of man to make a girl feel special, and this popped out.

I hope you enjoy!

He is there, just ahead of me in the marketplace. His broad shoulders and back are standing out in the crowd, the pattern on his leather vest curling over the rippled material, moving as he laughs amongst a group of men. I can always spot him in a crowd, surrounded by the men.

Well... not men... Warriors. Knights.

I can see a scar run in behind his shoulder, disappearing under the edge of the armhole. I see another one run down his neck in the same fashion. It is all I can do not to lift my hand and pre­tend to trace them from where I am standing.

But, he turns around, and now I ama statue. I cannot move, and my eyes cannot tear away from him. My sister notices and jabs my ribs with her fingers. I slap at her hand but I do not turn my gaze. He smiles and turns to one of his companions, pointing at us.

"Here now, stop staring." She says as she piles out more food from the baskets. "S'unladylike."

If only I could! I snap back to the present, and arrange the baking out in front of us in the booth we share. I can feel my skin heating, I know I am blushing scarlet red. Damn my shyness! It will make a fool of me when they arrive in front to look at our wares.

One side of our modest booth is covered in spun clothing. Gloves, mittens, ear warmers for cold nights. Socks even! The Roman soldiers love these socks. We sell so many. I wonder idly, as I concentrate on them, if he would enjoy a pair. I would make them a golden yellow, to match his hair. Or a dark brown, to match his eyes.

I am folding a scarf when I see a shadow cross the tabletop. I stop and look up, my hands stilling. He is smiling at me, and it is all I can do to put the scarf down and smile back, my heart beating so hard it will come through my chest at any moment.

My sister, in her infinite wisdom, fluffs out her chest, pushing her bosom up out of the flimsy fabric of her dress. She pushes me out of the way.

Our father always says her breasts are what sell more sweets than hungry stomachs. She leans forward and winks at him. One of his companions peeks over his shoulder. Dark curls,mischievous eyes and a toothy grin. He is a charmer. I can see my sister take a step back and lift her eyes to him.

She knows who that is.

Who's staring now? I think to myself. Always she plays this game with him until he wins and she goes to him. How many times has she come home sobbing when he has brought another girl onto his lap once he is finished with her? She will never learn. But I can understand. He is dev­ilishly handsome, and his smile could melt the snow on top of the mountains.

"Hello Sirs. What can we help you with today then?" My sister purrs.

There is a whole group of them gathering. I curtsey as they arrange themselves in front of her. No doubt to stare at my sister's bosom, which she is affectionately throwing out over the baking. They've got a good look at her now. She'll be warming his bed by evening, and crying in mine by morning.

Not that being seen with the brave Lancelot does any harm to her reputation.

These men are legends among our people, not real. They are God-like in their feats of bravery, and lifted in stories around village fires like deities that will be worshipped for eternity. I loved the stories as a child, listening to the elders talk about Arthur and his great knights. Lancelot and Tristan, Bors and Dagonet... Perceval... Galahad... The stories we heard growing up, the battles they fought, the brave deeds they have accomplished.

And Gawain. Always I would make my father tell me the story of Gawain and the evil Green Knight over and over. Laughing and jumping about when he would come to the part where Ga­wain slays the man with a stroke of his sword. His mighty sword swung from arms like tree trunks. From shoulders that could move boulders. Such strength as to crush a man's skull with his hand.

Legends, I remind myself as I look at him from under my eyelashes. These men seem real enough to me now. Flesh, blood. Not like the Gods they are praised to be, and the ones I once heralded as such, when just a small girl. But all the same, I feel awed at them and I know I am blushing again. I can feel it creeping up my face. Well... awed and, especially for him, an unre­quited desire to just... know him.

This is not our first meeting.

I am reminded of the first time they came by our booth, a rowdy bunch, fresh off horses and smelling. I remember his hand touching mine just briefly as he put the coin in my upheld palm, and picked a piece of bread out of the basket in my arm. I think it was then I fell in love with him. I didn't know who he was.

The next time he came around, he asked me what my name was. And then he told me his. I near­ly fainted. My sister will never let me forget that incident. Every time since then, he has come by, we have shared small talk, he has bought bread, and touched my hand, smiling, sharing a quick glance. It is the closest I have ever come to intimacy with a man and I realize I am hope­lessly gone in my daydreams of him between our meetings, spurred by those brief touches.

If he knew, he would think I was mad in the head. I'm sure of it.

I pretend to be busy as he comes over to my side of the booth. He pretends to look over some of the spinning, but I see his eyes sneaking back to my sister's bosom. Of course, I have nothing to offer in that department. I am neither heavy-chested nor swan-hipped. My mother calls me "leggy", and hopes that I will grow into my body. She hopes... I am already five and twenty. I am done growing.

I don't mean to, but I sigh loudly and bend over to fix a tie on my sandal as my sister giggles and swats playfully at one of the other knights.

"Hello."

I straighten and feel a thrill run through my body as his voice resonates. It's deep, and rich, and full. I enjoy its throaty nature so much. So with an inward push that would rival the bravery of these knights, I look to him and smile the best smile I can.

He is standing, hands on the edge of our booth, his muscles flexed foward. A calm look to his eye, but a sparkle as well. It's enough to relax me, at least right now. If he speaks again I may just jump. And my sister would laugh. She is now feeding small bits of sweetmeat to Lancelot with her fingers. The corner of my eye catches Galahad, another of the knights, crossing his arms.

I just know he is waiting his turn. He won't get it.

"Your sister seems to like him." He says, his voice rumbling into my ears again. I smile and relax. Somehow, with him this close to me, I feel my inhibitions leaving me, maybe just a little bit. I nod and, much to my chagrin, snort, crossing my arms and leaning on the other side of the booth to mirror him, turning my head to look towards my sister, where his eyes have now trav­elled.

"My sister likes his attentions." I say, then immediately regret it. He will think I am a bitter thing. I twist my lips.

He has smiled, Gods but he has smiled. And his eyes crinkle. I smile again, the warmth from it making it impossible not to do so. His hair has come forward, dangling loose. He gives an irri­tates growl and flings it back over his shoulder as he turns back to me.

I have an idea.

Since my hair is equally as long, I have taken to making leather ties for hair, that are held by sticks. I had been working on one in the evenings by the fire in our hut. Somehow, suddenly, I think that he should have the one I just finished last evening. It was him I would think of as I carved the picture on its face. A lion, fierce and proud. Much like him, or as I would envision him.

I dig into my pocket and produce the thing.

"Here, try this. To hold you hair back."

He tilts his head at me, then gently picks it out of my fingers.

"How does it work?"

So I pull it back, my shyness gone as I show how the bone spike goes through the holes when the hair is wrapped under the leather thong. He furrows his brow and I can't help but laugh at his expression. He laughs then too, and the world stops. I have caught his eyes, and feel the blush coming for a third time. We stand for what seems like forever. He turns the hair tie over in my hand and traces the carvings on the top with his fingers.

"This is very pretty. It should be in a pretty girl's hair, not my filthy mat."

My heart has ceased to beat. I don't know what to say. My hand has stilled with the thing in it, forgotten. But he hasn't. He takes it back.

"Turn around then." He says.

So I turn, and I can feel his hand touch my shoulder as my back is turned. The shock through me, the heat from it, I can feel goosebumps under my dress. My hair is being gathered up behind me, and I feel the snugness of the tie as he binds my hair at my nape. When he is done I can feel a coldness from where his fingers brushed the back of my neck, his hands now gone.

I turn around again, and I know I am blushing. Any more red and I could be the breast feathers on a robin! I reach back and touch my hair with my hand. He smiles and we both stop, our eyes meeting once more, but this time, I feel something more is transpiring.

"What do you think?" I ask, wanting to break the silence. He reaches forward and runs a finger just under my jaw, his eyes so warm and inviting. He is leaning forward and I lean forward into his touch, just a little. We are mere breaths away from each other.

"It is a pretty piece," He says quietly and then winks. "For such a pretty girl."

I blink and he straightens. He holds out a hand. "Walk with us."

Without thinking, I have abandoned my apron, and stepped out from behind the booth. My sister is spluttering as I leave, Gawain meeting me at the side doorway, his eyes dancing play­fully.

He told me I was pretty.

For the first time in my life, as he hold my hand aloft and helps me down the steps, I feel that way.

Dear Reader:

Ok now... everyone together... sigh.

How often have women yearned for such simple romanticism? The brave, charming man to come in and sweep us off our feet with simple gestures and words such as these? I thought it would be fun to give Gawain the chance to be the ladies man for a change.

Interesting thing this was, to write,and I really hope you will let me know how I did with it. I wrote it this evening and decided to post it without further ado!

So thank you for reading, and may your own knight be as dashing and heart-stopping as Gawain was for our pretty marketplace girl.

Cardeia