It's a risk, what he's done in calling after her, and not only for any delay to Claire's walk through darkening woods. It'd be an unpardonable one to have ventured, subjecting her to this prolonged leave-taking, if it were only done in service to his own inarguably selfish wish.
But it will serve something greater. The Green Knight would never allow it to do otherwise.
Even on the brink of apparent disaster, he's been capable of drawing forth a confidence for others to borrow, a low-simmering but steady optimism that's contagious, however unlikely. (Not because of slim odds so much as leadership style, which in Gawain's case tends to be decidedly un-sugarcoated, to say the least.) In these efforts he has made Fey believe him entirely convinced, when privately he felt the Widow's veil trailing whisper-thin past their feet.
But he knows here it won't be enough merely to drop hope over his face like a helm, to be grimly removed after the fray. Claire is not one of his men, and she isn't a child, for all the heartbreaking sweetness now warring with turmoil in her voice. He must find a way to dredge up the thing for himself, to believe in it, whatever the cost.
He thinks back to the way he felt, seeing her burst into their glade with a grin. Coupled with the declaration she'd made moments ago, glorious to him even in despair, he finds -- enough.
Not much, but oh, enough.
"I'll bring it back to you."
Gawain brings up an arm, crossing its vambraced length over his body. His hand moves past her arrowhead, comes instead to rest in a fist against his chest, where the source of his pulse beats determined as the promise.
"In the meantime, find Nimue." He looks at her across the glade, his features all settled into a warmth like the sun's setting rays, transitory but no less tangible. The tension's melted away from the corners of his gaze, and the way he holds himself straight, it's no longer like he's stiffened by anguish, but buoyed by pride.
"She has heard of your character, and of what it means to me. She will be an ally to you and yours. Not on my say-so, but because by your own merit you've earned it."
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But it will serve something greater. The Green Knight would never allow it to do otherwise.
Even on the brink of apparent disaster, he's been capable of drawing forth a confidence for others to borrow, a low-simmering but steady optimism that's contagious, however unlikely. (Not because of slim odds so much as leadership style, which in Gawain's case tends to be decidedly un-sugarcoated, to say the least.) In these efforts he has made Fey believe him entirely convinced, when privately he felt the Widow's veil trailing whisper-thin past their feet.
But he knows here it won't be enough merely to drop hope over his face like a helm, to be grimly removed after the fray. Claire is not one of his men, and she isn't a child, for all the heartbreaking sweetness now warring with turmoil in her voice. He must find a way to dredge up the thing for himself, to believe in it, whatever the cost.
He thinks back to the way he felt, seeing her burst into their glade with a grin. Coupled with the declaration she'd made moments ago, glorious to him even in despair, he finds -- enough.
Not much, but oh, enough.
"I'll bring it back to you."
Gawain brings up an arm, crossing its vambraced length over his body. His hand moves past her arrowhead, comes instead to rest in a fist against his chest, where the source of his pulse beats determined as the promise.
"In the meantime, find Nimue." He looks at her across the glade, his features all settled into a warmth like the sun's setting rays, transitory but no less tangible. The tension's melted away from the corners of his gaze, and the way he holds himself straight, it's no longer like he's stiffened by anguish, but buoyed by pride.
"She has heard of your character, and of what it means to me. She will be an ally to you and yours. Not on my say-so, but because by your own merit you've earned it."