The Knight

The Knight’s clanking metal shone brilliantly under the light of a soft sun, resting above in a blue sky. And very much like young lamb were the white clouds that drifted gently there too. The Knight’s metal footprints left depressions in the field of wildflowers, bent little stems, and crushed little petals. He felt sorry, though that was foolish. How could one possibly care for the lives of a few blossoms, when many times the sword at his side had been driven through the hearts of men. 

The field spread before him like a sea of colour, blues and pink and yellow and red, splashed across the pale grass, disturbed only by an occasional breeze, passing over like a ripple through the water. Picturesque, he could describe it only as this, like a painting or a dream. 

It wasn’t at all like the map, which he held before him in a grand manner, imagining for a moment that he took the image of a brave captain, about to set sail across a perilous ocean, a band of seamen accompanying him. No, the map showed this very field as a mere spot of green, and it was much more beautiful than that. He should hate to be a mapmaker, because he would surely find himself inking each separate flower into his parchment or painting every bird he saw in the sky. He would much rather be an artist, then, he decided. But he was a Knight, and a Knight had better things to do than daydream. 

The only thing he was supposed to care about was the greyish speck meant to be a tower. This was his joyous and heroic quest, for which he must lay down his life if the occasion called for it; he was to rescue a lovely maiden, trapped in the confines of the abandoned tower. Every Knight rescued a fair maiden, it was part of being a Knight, a given, a must, a rite of passage, even. 

“Every Knight must save a damsel from her tower,” so he had been told. “If you cannot do this, you’re not a Knight. And if you’re not a knight, then you’re the damsel.” 

This particular saying always brought laughter, and he never quite understood why. It was best not to dwell on these things too long, otherwise they start to unravel, it’s always best to just follow along, do as you’re told, and follow example. 

The Knight always tried to do these things, he really did, but guiltily he knew that he had been out here searching for far longer than he ought to have been. He'd sort of... lost track after a while, but he knew that it had been years since he first set out on this mission to prove his manhood. The Knight had been very young when he became such a title, rather than just a boy, or just a child, very young when he had to face the harsh realities of the world. But a Knight has to step up, carry the burden, and learn that a sword is his greatest companion. 

The truth was that he had been dawdling, and if not completely literally, then in his mind, at least. It just seemed that he only had so long to be young and carefree, and even then, he wasn’t truly supposed to be. So, the child in his mind wondered the harm in admiring the flowers for a while. 

The Knight continued his journey, and so too did the sun, travelling across the sky, until overhead blue turned to orange and red and yellow, and eventually, the velvet black of nighttime.  

Sleeping was strange when you were out so long, eventually he had stopped building camps, and fires, and making a fuss out of the darkness. Often times now he simply laid down amongst the grasses and closed his eyes, in no hurry for morning to arrive. Tonight was like this, and as The Knight rested his head on a pillow of flowers, he looked up at the stars, and thought what a grand life it was, to be a Knight.  

Suddenly, it was day. But the sunlight was jarring and cold, and the soft colours of the blossoms were bright and gaudy. The Knight was standing in the middle of his field, growing hot in his heavy armour, when he spotted her on the hill above. Of course, his lovely maiden. She was beautiful, by every standard he’d been taught; soft golden curls, and soft pink lips, doe-eyed, and with slender features. She was wearing a flowing gown, and she walked towards him slowly and gracefully, almost at a waltz. 

So why was he frightened all of a sudden? Why did his heart pound underneath all of the armour? Why was her smile so sinister? He wanted to run away now, he wanted to cower and hide, but that was foolish. He was a Knight, and she looked to be a princess, so he instead stood tall, and waited as she grew closer and closer.  

The maiden put her hands to his face, and he was in anguish because her delicate palms touched only metal. How could he tell her that he was not the suit of armour and that he was the flesh? That his face was not the face she saw? She was so beautiful but not in a way he could love, only admire. But though her appearance was as porcelain as he felt beneath his metal body, he knew somehow that this had forced her to grow a heart made of steel. So, standing there he willed the princess to leave because if she was there then they were both to be something they were not. But she did not leave, because she was made for him and he for her. 

It took only moments for his terror to mount to new heights, and for it to seem his very being was falling, falling away from the visor from which he viewed the world, into a darkness deep and cold. It felt as though he was slipping away, his identity fading to be nothing more than a shadow behind the stoic silhouette of a soldier. 

Soon the Knight was gasping awake, relief slowly taking the place of his panic. Of course, it was but a dream; he would not behave so strangely in waking hours. He laughed a bit, shaking off the frightfulness of before, and stood. It was still dark, but he opted to set out anyway and get a head start for the day. 

It was in the later hours of the evening that the Knight saw the tower come into view, and his heart fluttered, a feeling of excitement welling up in his chest. It was still a fair distance to travel, for the fixture of stone was atop a hill in the distance, and past a small wood, but nevertheless, just seeing the tower made him hopeful. After many years he would finally complete his quest, and he would finally be worthy. A prophecy complete and a purpose served. 

The Knight rested his head against a large oak tree as the sun set. His metal joints creaked and groaned in the effort to sit, and he wondered if maybe he ought to simply stand from now on. He set the sword in front of him, and saw the deep cracks beginning to form there, on the weapon. Moss grew there too, and on his boots and his hands. Even a few stray wildflowers had taken to blossoming on the pommel of the sword. A hundred beasts this sword had slain, a hundred monsters felled by his hand. The Knight didn’t much like to think of this; those days were sorrowful. 

The morning arrived quickly, almost too quickly, he thought. He would have liked to rest a little longer, but alas, it was time to move on. He shook off his displeasure and was soon merrily making his way through the woods, the singing of songbirds urging him along. Unfortunately, such uneven ground was a bit troublesome, seeing as his feet were very heavy, and his range of vision was rather narrow. The further he went through the woods, and thus the closer he got to the tower, the more that building fear in the back of his mind returned. What if he didn’t like the princess? What if he wasn’t happy? What if, after all this time and all the pain, he still wasn’t satisfied? This was foolish. All his life he’d been told he was a Knight, and a Knight he would be. After all, if he didn’t rescue the damsel then he must be a damsel himself. And this was shameful, presumably. He hoped the damsel didn’t feel ashamed. 

Perhaps it was the fault of these all-consuming thoughts, when he found himself falling. Over the small overhang he tumbled, until quite suddenly his nerves were shot through with cold. Water. His head broke the surface, and he struggled to keep it that way, but more and more liquid was filling his lungs. He pushed his hands through the water but to no avail; the water seemed as thick as honey, and so he remained sinking. He heard a voice, like an angel from somewhere out of sight, calling to him. 

“The armour! Good god man, the armour! Take it off or you’ll drown!” 

It was not an angel, it sounded like a man. The Knight choked and sputtered. 

“I can’t!” he cried. “I’m a Knight!” 

He was, of course capable, physically, of hastily unfastening the heavy breastplate and unbuckling his boots, but he just... couldn’t. What if, beneath the armour, there was nothing left of him? What if he was but a soul waiting to float away, held only by the confines of his metal body? He wanted to be good. He had to be good. 

His head was underwater, and his helmet was filling quickly, his breaths a gulp and a gasp until they were no more. From above the water he heard a final, garbled, panicky shout, 

“You’ll die if you keep this up!” 

So, for the first time in perhaps millennia, the Knight loosened the leather straps that bound his metal chest, and, holding his breath, pulled off his boots that dragged him down like sacks of stones. He feared even now that he was free of this weight, he wouldn’t break the surface again. He had been too late. And now stripped of his shield he would drown, a wretched awful knight who never did anything worthwhile. 

And suddenly, air. His helmet was ripped from his head, and now someone was dragging him, water streaming past his bare limbs. He felt solid ground beneath him again. An unfamiliar face was coming into focus above. The Knight’s eyes went wide as he looked to his left and right, and realized with a lurch to his stomach that his beloved armour was still sinking, lost still in the forest pond. He pushed aside the person in front of him and stumbled down to the shore. 

“Oh no...” he said softly, though he felt much worse than whatever mild distress these words conveyed. “Oh heavens...” 

He waded deeper and deeper, but before he could dive into the dark waters once more, he felt the arms of the stranger around him. 

“It’s gone. I’m sorry.” 

The Knight stopped struggling, his hands dropped to his sides, and he stared hopelessly out onto the water. The small overhang from which he had fallen was still sprinkling dirt into the water. Such a foolish blunder. Such a silly mistake. 

“Then I wish you’d never saved me,” he mumbled to the stranger, the terrible emptiness slowly taking him over. “I was meant to do the saving...” 

“But look, dear knight,” the stranger said, and walked around to face him, holding the Knight’s face in his rough hands. “You are real. You are you. The prison of steel holds you no longer.” 

The Knight’s eyes sparkled. He could feel the stranger’s hands against his cheeks. They were warm. And he began to weep, for he was a real person, he was the flesh and not the metal, and the man in front of him, despite being a stranger, knew this too. The man in front of him was seeing his face, his true face. He had not faded, he was not gone, he was here, and alive, and crying warm tears.