The Things We Become

“The day I turned 18, all my dreams came true.

My father was my idol. I had worshiped him my entire life. In the eyes of his only son, he was a giant amongst men and others treated him as such. He was a king’s man, you see, defending the realm and protecting the King at all costs. There was nothing more honourable than that.

I had made it my mission to follow him where and when I could. He would take me to the keep and let me muck the stables with the other boys there. I would do it with a glad heart. His men would welcome me, bantering and playing with me. Not one denied me when I picked up my first practice sword in the yard. Looking back now, I was probably naïve to think that those men enjoyed my presence. Tolerated as the captain’s son would have been closer to the truth. In my foolish youth, I had poked, prodded and pestered any training I could get from those long-suffering men.

My father was proud of me. He would frequently offer encouragement and compliment my resolve to learn all that I could. He would smile at me with such warmth and say, ‘My boy. My little king’s man.’

I was hell-bent on being just like my father. He was perfect in every way.

I would often tell my mother that I wished to be him, to do what he did, to give my life in service to the crown. She would always look at me with such deep sadness and stroke my cheek. She would tell me I was too gentle of a soul to do my father’s work and it was alright if I chose a different path. Denying me was not in her nature, but it was always clear that she would never encourage me in my task.

I resented her for it.

But time moved on, as it inevitably does, and I grew strong and skilled. I reinforced my goals of being a king’s man to specifically finding a way into my father’s elite squad. I wanted to be at his right hand, to be part of those duties he never talked about, to be in the inner circle.

It was then, the year of my 18th birthday, that my father finally agreed that I was ready and I could not help but to think it was all because of my mother. She had died that winter. The cold had settled in her lungs and drowned her. It was a slow, gasping death and a misery to watch. Father never showed much emotion about it. He was always such a stoic man and I think the idea of him crying before his son was unmanly. That is what I told myself back then, though not now. I know better.

Mother was not the only one to die that winter. It had been particularly harsh and far longer than usual. Many of the weak and poor had suffered from meager food and a lack of firewood. The entire city grumbled with discontent, but it could not quell my excitement at finally being included. The anticipation had me floating on air. My grin beamed back at the weak spring sun as it struggled out of winter’s relentless grip. I had been tasked with preparing the horses to ride out and to wait patiently for my father’s squad to join me. I had not been invited to join the briefing. That was above my position at the time. I was to watch, learn, and do as instructed. Once more, I was the lowest of my group.

‘Ready, boy?’ His presence had startled me. I’d been too busy daydreaming about what adventure we would have that day, what heroic deeds we would be called upon to perform. He had snatched his horse’s reins from my hands, none too gently, and swung himself into his saddle. His men followed suit, their faces were very grim. These men were no longer my comrades and my father was no longer my papa. He was my captain, and they were hard men with a task to do.

A frown from my father had me scrambling into my saddle with all the awkwardness of a newborn foal. I’d pushed the horse into a trot to take my place in the rear. They would not have waited for me if I had fallen behind. It was no longer a time where my steps would be guided.

I clearly remember how the city felt that day, a grim misery that hung like a shroud. It clashed with my personal happiness and dragged it down until it was smothered in the mud and late melting snow. The city had forced itself upon me, baring its broken soul. I realised how sheltered I had been from what was happening. I may have lost my mother to sickness, but my father’s position had awarded us food and firewood. We had been comfortable.

But this place…

I tried to shove it from me. I didn’t want to dwell on it, to focus on the task at hand, but it didn’t want to be ignored. It was everywhere. It was in the faces of those we passed, their thin bodies and ragged clothes. It hung in the air, the smell of some poor forgotten soul left to rot. This was not the glorious city I had dreamed of defending.

‘Dismount.’

We arrived at an artisan’s house. The sign above his door was the only indication that he was a carpenter. I saw no trace of furniture or timber. Anything that could be burnt for warmth was gone.

‘Lieutenant, stay with my boy and watch the horses.’ Father’s order left no room for argument. I knew it, his man knew it, and neither of us were happy about it.

To my surprise, father didn’t knock on the door, he simply kicked it in and rushed forward with no hesitation. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen that day, but this sudden violence against one of our citizens wasn’t it. Each shout and crash that had followed unnerved me further. My mind told me that my father was in danger, although his man seemed unphased. I could no longer bear it and rushed to his aid, ignoring a warning shout from his lieutenant.

I was not prepared for what I saw.

The room was in utter chaos. A woman was held tight by Father’s man, screeching and kicking. A small boy cowered in a corner by the upturned table, his eyes wide and wet. Father stood over a man who lay bloody on the floor, his fists tight.

‘Where are they?’

Father hit the carpenter again, and blood flowed from his mouth.

‘Tell me.’

‘Stop. What are you doing?’ It had not been my place to say anything. I was not even sure it was me that said it. My voice sounded so foreign over the buzzing in my head.

‘Get out!’

His voice boomed through the panicked haze.

‘Their citizens. We’re supposed to protect these people.’

The woman had broken free at that point, my interruption being the distraction she had needed. She launched herself towards father, hands outstretched like talons, ready to claw at him, but father was quicker. The sound of his gauntleted fist hitting her face was sickening and, before she had hit the ground, he turned back to the husband. Drawing his dagger, he grabbed the man’s hand and angled the blade against his knuckle.

‘One more time. Where are they?’

I was a fool to think my words meant anything. A fool to think that my relationship with my father gave me leave to challenge him. I watched him harden towards me. Watched the man I had held in such high regard fall off the pedestal I had placed him on. My hero, my idol, was not the kind man I had told myself he was. He was not the beacon of hope and justice I had fantasized about, that I had dreamt of becoming. He was hard and brutal and my mother had been right, but I had been too captivated to see it. In that moment, I hated him and I missed my mother more than I could have ever imagined.

The day I turned 18, all my dreams shattered.”

“But now here I am, with my own men at my back, committing dark deeds to protect my king.”

I pulled a tiny blade from my belt. It was thin and narrow, barely bigger than a blade of grass. I held it up before my face and studied it before my focus drifted back to the beaten man before me. Grabbing his hand, I positioned the blade at the tip of his fingernail. Pausing for a moment, I let the fear of indescribable pain soak into his already hurting body and, as his breaths grew tighter, I slowly slid the fine blade under his fingernail. His screams filled the tiny damp cell, but I paid them no mind. These things no longer affected me.

“And to think, I haven’t even asked you a question yet.”