Who I Really Am

I watch him out on the training ground with his knights, wielding his sword with easy confidence. The ring of steel on steel is a comforting counterpoint to the frustrated scrub, scrub of this blood-stained cloth at his stupid maille. Blood rusts metal, I know, but I don’t understand why he has to bleed on something every day. I imagine he does it just to spite me; the careless dismissal in his voice when he tells me to have all his armor polished for the next day makes me curl my hands into fists.

I know full well that every other knight at the castle sends their armor to the armory or has a miniature convoy of pages and squires to polish every piece of life-saving nonsense. I’m just one servant, and his royal pratliness knows it. It’s a wonder he hasn’t figured out what I am yet, given how many chores I manage to do in a day. Usually he’s too busy complaining at how terribly I do my job to realize that, really, one man alone couldn’t possibly do all I do in one day.

I tried to point that out once.

He sent me to the stocks.

I wonder if wielding a sword feels to him the same way using magic feels for me. On the first day we met, he informed me that he’d been trained to kill since birth. I’ve seen him disarmed before; he’s a natural leader and thinks quickly on his feet, but there’s always that flash of panic in his eyes when his sword flies from his grip. I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly found myself without my magic.

Assuming we weren’t in the middle of being attacked by something that usually only came from story books, I’d probably cry.

Not that I’d ever tell him that.

He thinks I’m a useless servant. I trip over my feet a lot, so in the middle of an important banquet, when I spill wine down a visiting princess’s dress, I might give him that.

But he has no idea who I really am.

I’m not sure I want him to.

(361 words)