Green
Sick and Tired
Ok, I have no title for this one, but here it is, anyway 
This short story is something I've been kicking around for a while, and it's got to the stage where I can't improve it without feedback, so I am much obliged to all that take the time to crit this.
It was always more of an exercise in grammar and precision than anything else, so please feel free to line-edit, to point out bits that just smack of crap... but any general comments are also welcome, of course. Thanks all.
The Green Knight plodded his way to the wall. The going was laborious - his plates of bark and lichen armour threatened to fall away with each measured step.
‘Who here dares challenge my word?’ he cried to those standing guard atop the old ramparts of the city. ‘Who has called for my head upon their lance?’
There were words of consternation, barely audible above the panic. Nobody seemed ready to speak up. The Green Knight did not mind - he was well used to waiting. Even the smallest saplings could reach the sky, given time.
Minutes passed without reply, in which the Green Knight occupied himself by counting the woodlice scurrying between his moulding joints. He counted twenty-seven before the men on the walls called his name.
‘Green Knight,’ shouted one wiry man, his face gaunt and lacking pith. ‘There is no-one here who would dare challenge your sturdy name. You protect our lands, and for that we are grateful.’
‘The land knows my honour - the world sings my praise. Far and wide are told the tales of my deeds,’ replied the Knight.
The fleshy faces on the wall nodded in agreement.
‘And yet I hear rumours amongst the trees, whispers borne on salty winds, that there is one who would refute my irrefutable deeds.’ His voice boomed from the ages, resonant with cavernous echo. ‘Who dares challenge me?’
‘Green Knight,’ said the bravest man, ‘we would not dream of sullying your good name. Perhaps those salty winds were born in coastal climes. The town of Mere lies west of here.’
The Green Knight marched on.
Soft-sloped hills fell underfoot, pace by pace, and the sun continued its cherished arc across the sky. The Green Knight did not begrudge the journey – how else could one absorb the beauty of the Living Land, if not by gliding 'cross its glades?
The creaks of weathered tree stumps were the sound of his steps, the warm mulch of decay his only tracks. Tawny sparrows would greet his passing with their gleeful songs, but the Green Knight could not linger long. His progress was slow, but as inevitable as the sunrise.
He covered many miles before he first glimpsed Mere, its clutch of huts an outcrop of dark relief before the shores of the western sea. The air was strong with old salt and the grasses underfoot grew scarce, infiltrated with grating sand.
A small fishing town, Mere held little fascination for the Green Knight. Fish and their mundanities were not his concern. He knew of few, if any, fish who had ever visited his forest. In like regard, he had never visited Mere.
No walls surrounded Mere’s modest tendrils, and so the Green Knight addressed the town itself.
‘Town of Mere,’ he began, his words rugged as etched limestone. ‘I am the Green Knight--’
‘Green Knight!’ said a voice, deep and swirling, each word rising and falling in turn. ‘You dare to show your decrepit, humus-strewn face here?’
The Green Knight turned to the sea, to where the waves stroked the shore with their blue-white foam. There stood upon the beach a lone figure, as broad of shoulder as the Green Knight himself, though taller and less rigid of posture. He wore flowing beryl mail that hugged his form like waves gripping the beach, as though the links were no more solid than the pools of water at his shifting feet.
The Green Knight grasped his hickory sword in weed-like fingers, a tangled mass of knots. ‘Blue Knight,’ he said as he raised the blade to greet the sun. ‘I should have known you would dare to face me.’
‘Indeed you should,’ replied the Blue Knight in his rushing, rolling manner, ‘but you have ever been slow to learn.’
‘And you have ever been reluctant to grow. Your time has come and gone, old man.’
The Blue Knight reached beneath his cloak of shimmering scale and withdrew his own weapon of choice. The bleached white shaft of the coral spear was tri-pointed and looked brittle in the afternoon sun. He spun the thing around his body in fluid arcs, spraying droplets of brackish water like sweat across the earth.
The townspeople of Mere gathered upon the pebbled fringes of the beach in their anxious tens, eager to observe the clash of such renowned champions. None could deny their dual sympathies, dwelling as they did on the skirting tightrope of shore.
‘Will you bear witness to my deeds this day?’ asked the Green Knight of the appetent townsfolk.
‘We will!’ they cried in turn.
‘And will you bear witness,’ said the Blue Knight, his slow words building to a strong roar, ‘to my deeds, this day?’
‘We will!’ they cried. ‘We will observe, and mark in detail the outcome of this duel.’
The Knights turned to face each other, each satisfied in their promise of glory.
‘You would presume,’ asked the Green Knight of the Blue, ‘to conquer the Knight of the Living Land?’ He flourished his hardwood blade, though the sunlight refused to glimmer from its dull surface. ‘I am ever successful in my endeavours. None have bested me – not even the Red Knight, with his hatred for all that lives. His victories are ever fleeting, and flare with his temper.’
‘I presume nothing, Green Knight,’ said the Blue, ‘since all that is mine returns to me in time. The Old Ocean is as insurmountable and as immovable as the rain. I am ever the limit of your ambition.’ Words streamed from his barnacled tongue, swells of bitter salt riding each blustered breath.
And so the Knights fought beneath an indifferent sun, its Golden Knight aloof and neglectful of their toil. The slow weave of the Green’s staunch advance matched the Blue’s building, swelling strikes with unhurried certainty. The Blue Knight absorbed the Green’s advances, neither flinching nor retreating, flooding each footfall with his rhythmic, drifting dashes.
For many hours they battled, neither one gaining the upper hand over the other. Ever they returned to the centre, each unable to break the stalemate.
The townspeople of Mere looked upon the two champions with waxing disinterest. When no Knight held advantage, how could they decide whom to cheer? How unfair to hold their attentions so indecisively, so conditionally! As each hour passed, fewer spectators remained. The ringing of blades filled their ears as they deserted the site in their impatience. No working man had time for such things.
‘You cannot stand before my advance,’ swirled the Blue Knight, his trident arcing with perfect timing.
‘You will not hold sway upon my beleaguered shore,’ replied the Green, beneath a measured swing of timber.
And so the sun curled low on the horizon, its warm shades masking the presence of those who might peer upon them with cold, vengeful delight. Neither saw the lone figure pick his way toward them, each step delicate and precise as louse legs, each stride slow as whale song. They fought on, and were lost in their mutual antipathy.
The sun dutifully set and the Silver Knight rode his way to the zenith of his influence. The sway he held upon the toiling combatants was dispelled by its own balance, and he contented himself with the joy of observation. Ever his taste was sterile and distant.
The Blue and Green Knights, exhausted from unenviable deadlock, finally swung their last blows, and collapsed together upon the cooling, grating sand. Neither had won, neither had gained upon their foe.
Only now did they appreciate the presence of another.
‘Well Met,’ said the White Knight, in sharp and painful pitch. ‘I Am Late, Again. As Is My Way. I Hope You Will Forgive My Tardiness.’ Each word was spoken with the creep of time, the force of mountains.
Neither combatant could raise the strength to answer his draining words, so exhausted were they from their struggles.
‘You Have Each Won And Lost The Devotion Of All You Survey, And Discarded It In Your Arrogance.’ His crystal crown did not glimmer in the light of the moon, but split it instead into twin components of dark and cold.
‘This is not your land,’ said the Green, his joints aching and growing stiff.
‘And you will never know these depths,’ whispered the Blue, though his heart grew cold and still.
‘Of Little Consequence,’ replied the White Knight, smiling his jagged smile. ‘I Need Not Know The Details. I Shall Own Them In Time, And Rewrite Their Essence. As I Have Owned You Both, And Precipitated Your Encounter.’
The White Knight held a translucent hand to the brow of each captive Guardsman. They shivered and slept, despite their vows of resilience.
Sleep was enough for the White Knight. He knew all about sleep.
He turned from the two lifeless forms, and began his Journey. He had work to do, and this time he would ensure his reign would last.
He headed inland, with all the time in the world. The snows fell thick as he went.
This short story is something I've been kicking around for a while, and it's got to the stage where I can't improve it without feedback, so I am much obliged to all that take the time to crit this.It was always more of an exercise in grammar and precision than anything else, so please feel free to line-edit, to point out bits that just smack of crap... but any general comments are also welcome, of course. Thanks all.
The Green Knight plodded his way to the wall. The going was laborious - his plates of bark and lichen armour threatened to fall away with each measured step.
‘Who here dares challenge my word?’ he cried to those standing guard atop the old ramparts of the city. ‘Who has called for my head upon their lance?’
There were words of consternation, barely audible above the panic. Nobody seemed ready to speak up. The Green Knight did not mind - he was well used to waiting. Even the smallest saplings could reach the sky, given time.
Minutes passed without reply, in which the Green Knight occupied himself by counting the woodlice scurrying between his moulding joints. He counted twenty-seven before the men on the walls called his name.
‘Green Knight,’ shouted one wiry man, his face gaunt and lacking pith. ‘There is no-one here who would dare challenge your sturdy name. You protect our lands, and for that we are grateful.’
‘The land knows my honour - the world sings my praise. Far and wide are told the tales of my deeds,’ replied the Knight.
The fleshy faces on the wall nodded in agreement.
‘And yet I hear rumours amongst the trees, whispers borne on salty winds, that there is one who would refute my irrefutable deeds.’ His voice boomed from the ages, resonant with cavernous echo. ‘Who dares challenge me?’
‘Green Knight,’ said the bravest man, ‘we would not dream of sullying your good name. Perhaps those salty winds were born in coastal climes. The town of Mere lies west of here.’
The Green Knight marched on.
Soft-sloped hills fell underfoot, pace by pace, and the sun continued its cherished arc across the sky. The Green Knight did not begrudge the journey – how else could one absorb the beauty of the Living Land, if not by gliding 'cross its glades?
The creaks of weathered tree stumps were the sound of his steps, the warm mulch of decay his only tracks. Tawny sparrows would greet his passing with their gleeful songs, but the Green Knight could not linger long. His progress was slow, but as inevitable as the sunrise.
He covered many miles before he first glimpsed Mere, its clutch of huts an outcrop of dark relief before the shores of the western sea. The air was strong with old salt and the grasses underfoot grew scarce, infiltrated with grating sand.
A small fishing town, Mere held little fascination for the Green Knight. Fish and their mundanities were not his concern. He knew of few, if any, fish who had ever visited his forest. In like regard, he had never visited Mere.
No walls surrounded Mere’s modest tendrils, and so the Green Knight addressed the town itself.
‘Town of Mere,’ he began, his words rugged as etched limestone. ‘I am the Green Knight--’
‘Green Knight!’ said a voice, deep and swirling, each word rising and falling in turn. ‘You dare to show your decrepit, humus-strewn face here?’
The Green Knight turned to the sea, to where the waves stroked the shore with their blue-white foam. There stood upon the beach a lone figure, as broad of shoulder as the Green Knight himself, though taller and less rigid of posture. He wore flowing beryl mail that hugged his form like waves gripping the beach, as though the links were no more solid than the pools of water at his shifting feet.
The Green Knight grasped his hickory sword in weed-like fingers, a tangled mass of knots. ‘Blue Knight,’ he said as he raised the blade to greet the sun. ‘I should have known you would dare to face me.’
‘Indeed you should,’ replied the Blue Knight in his rushing, rolling manner, ‘but you have ever been slow to learn.’
‘And you have ever been reluctant to grow. Your time has come and gone, old man.’
The Blue Knight reached beneath his cloak of shimmering scale and withdrew his own weapon of choice. The bleached white shaft of the coral spear was tri-pointed and looked brittle in the afternoon sun. He spun the thing around his body in fluid arcs, spraying droplets of brackish water like sweat across the earth.
The townspeople of Mere gathered upon the pebbled fringes of the beach in their anxious tens, eager to observe the clash of such renowned champions. None could deny their dual sympathies, dwelling as they did on the skirting tightrope of shore.
‘Will you bear witness to my deeds this day?’ asked the Green Knight of the appetent townsfolk.
‘We will!’ they cried in turn.
‘And will you bear witness,’ said the Blue Knight, his slow words building to a strong roar, ‘to my deeds, this day?’
‘We will!’ they cried. ‘We will observe, and mark in detail the outcome of this duel.’
The Knights turned to face each other, each satisfied in their promise of glory.
‘You would presume,’ asked the Green Knight of the Blue, ‘to conquer the Knight of the Living Land?’ He flourished his hardwood blade, though the sunlight refused to glimmer from its dull surface. ‘I am ever successful in my endeavours. None have bested me – not even the Red Knight, with his hatred for all that lives. His victories are ever fleeting, and flare with his temper.’
‘I presume nothing, Green Knight,’ said the Blue, ‘since all that is mine returns to me in time. The Old Ocean is as insurmountable and as immovable as the rain. I am ever the limit of your ambition.’ Words streamed from his barnacled tongue, swells of bitter salt riding each blustered breath.
And so the Knights fought beneath an indifferent sun, its Golden Knight aloof and neglectful of their toil. The slow weave of the Green’s staunch advance matched the Blue’s building, swelling strikes with unhurried certainty. The Blue Knight absorbed the Green’s advances, neither flinching nor retreating, flooding each footfall with his rhythmic, drifting dashes.
For many hours they battled, neither one gaining the upper hand over the other. Ever they returned to the centre, each unable to break the stalemate.
The townspeople of Mere looked upon the two champions with waxing disinterest. When no Knight held advantage, how could they decide whom to cheer? How unfair to hold their attentions so indecisively, so conditionally! As each hour passed, fewer spectators remained. The ringing of blades filled their ears as they deserted the site in their impatience. No working man had time for such things.
‘You cannot stand before my advance,’ swirled the Blue Knight, his trident arcing with perfect timing.
‘You will not hold sway upon my beleaguered shore,’ replied the Green, beneath a measured swing of timber.
And so the sun curled low on the horizon, its warm shades masking the presence of those who might peer upon them with cold, vengeful delight. Neither saw the lone figure pick his way toward them, each step delicate and precise as louse legs, each stride slow as whale song. They fought on, and were lost in their mutual antipathy.
The sun dutifully set and the Silver Knight rode his way to the zenith of his influence. The sway he held upon the toiling combatants was dispelled by its own balance, and he contented himself with the joy of observation. Ever his taste was sterile and distant.
The Blue and Green Knights, exhausted from unenviable deadlock, finally swung their last blows, and collapsed together upon the cooling, grating sand. Neither had won, neither had gained upon their foe.
Only now did they appreciate the presence of another.
‘Well Met,’ said the White Knight, in sharp and painful pitch. ‘I Am Late, Again. As Is My Way. I Hope You Will Forgive My Tardiness.’ Each word was spoken with the creep of time, the force of mountains.
Neither combatant could raise the strength to answer his draining words, so exhausted were they from their struggles.
‘You Have Each Won And Lost The Devotion Of All You Survey, And Discarded It In Your Arrogance.’ His crystal crown did not glimmer in the light of the moon, but split it instead into twin components of dark and cold.
‘This is not your land,’ said the Green, his joints aching and growing stiff.
‘And you will never know these depths,’ whispered the Blue, though his heart grew cold and still.
‘Of Little Consequence,’ replied the White Knight, smiling his jagged smile. ‘I Need Not Know The Details. I Shall Own Them In Time, And Rewrite Their Essence. As I Have Owned You Both, And Precipitated Your Encounter.’
The White Knight held a translucent hand to the brow of each captive Guardsman. They shivered and slept, despite their vows of resilience.
Sleep was enough for the White Knight. He knew all about sleep.
He turned from the two lifeless forms, and began his Journey. He had work to do, and this time he would ensure his reign would last.
He headed inland, with all the time in the world. The snows fell thick as he went.
