is hard work. He's so darn pure.
Well, no, that's not quite it. It turns out not to be enough to toss the pale lady and Sir Gawain together in this ritual situation. I've had to write a lot of stuff I'll never use, to find out they each want, and fear.
And, also, I have struggled with the tone -- since this is intended, after all, as a picture book. This is the best I've done so far.
If you're just dropping in, you probably don't want to start reading this story here. There's an index.
_________________
The next morning as Gwayne lay sleeping
behind curtains soft as spider's webs
though the hangings slipped the lady
and sat down by him on the bed.
He blinked awake to see her shining
clear and cold as winter stars.
He thought perhaps he was still dreaming
and whispered: Tell me what you are.
Tell me what you are, my lady,
for you cannot be all that you seem
too pure, too bright to be human
I think I'm in a land of dreams.
But the lady said: you are not dreaming:
I'm not a vision, not a ghost,
but I am alone, and I am lonely
and I lack what I need the most.
And that is love -- for all his booming
my lord is empty as a drum.
He loves the hunt, he doesn't love me --
truly I am glad you've come.
