Write a vignette about Sir Gawain. He is defeated and lost in the desert, on a quest for the grail. He is at the end of his journey, perishing in despair. His responsibility, symbolized by his green girdle, weighs on him. Write this in the first person.
I sigh and drag my foot one more hateful step through the yellow grains, sores and bruises rioting painfully in my broken body. I lean desperately against my horse, and she whinnies. I know she hasn't much longer to live. The sun blazes in the sky, apathetic, and the wind carries sand into my face. My face throbs with pain as it wretchedly tries to cry tears to moisten my eyes, but there is no water to feed them. My battered, rusted, gritty armor glows with the twisting distortions of heat. 

But it is the girdle that is killing me. Worn from shoulder to waist as a baldric, the green girdle writhes like flickering emerald fire in the breeze. So airy and ephemeral, and yet the weight of it strains my tired soul. Under its burden, I fear I might buckle and collapse into the sand. 

My knees fail, and I plummet into the burning dune. My arms dig through the grains, and I try to hoist myself up by the reigns of my horse, but she falls too, without a sound, and lies still. I pull myself against her withered body, and the wind picks up, carrying a storm of sand into the air. I open my mouth and try to wail, but no words escape my parched throat. I lay, baking under the Arabian sun, and stare at the billowing girdle still alive in the wind, as though struggling to get away. I realize this is the end. With what remains of my strength, I tear my sword from its scabbard and slice the girdle from my body. It is carried away in the wind. Perhaps to the Grail, or perhaps to curse some other righteous fool. 

My sword slips out of my exhausted hand. As I die, I watch the flickering green cloth dance away into the desert.