"A sword is only as sharp as the sense behind it...or the luck of the wielder."
— The Kingdom's Official Guide to Unlikely Heroes
-----------
Bartholomew Blunt, eyes wide and utterly serious, tripped over a root but didn't fall.
The men exchanged bewildered looks. One whispered to the other, "Who's the lady, then?"
Just then, another man skidded to a stop, took one look at the scene...the sword, the fallen companion, the dead-serious stance of Blunt, and paled.
"I knew it," he whispered. "It's a trap. He's one of them—those secret knights! The mad ones!"
With a yelp of fear, they turned and sprinted away into the alley.
There was a long silence.
Blunt blinked, still holding the sword in his hand.
"…That was weird."
He looked down at the fallen pastry, bent down and gently picked it up, cradling it with the tenderness of a mother hen returning to her egg.
"My sweet… You've been violated by the wind and trauma,"
As he dusted off the crust, a voice from behind him spoke.
"Excuse me… sir?"
Blunt spun around sharply, nearly swinging the pie instead of the sword. He pointed his still-sheathed blade with exaggerated menace at a young man who was now approaching.
"Hold it, brigand! I have a blade and an itchy hand! Take but one step closer and I shall unleash moderate fury!"
The man raised his hands in surrender. "I... mean no harm... sire."
Blunt stared at him suspiciously. "You— are a taxman, aren't you? I can smell the fear of confrontation!"
"I—I just wanted to thank you!"
"Thank me?" Blunt lowered the sword, confused.
The man stepped forward slowly. "Well… yes."
"This is not some cunning trap to see me clapped in irons, is it?"
"Why would I—?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"If you'd just let me speak, please."
"You saved me. Those men were going to rob me."
"I saved you?" Blunt gave a suspicious squint at the young man.
"You're awfully… clean for a robbery victim."
He stepped back. With the panic fading, he finally took in the young man's appearance.
Tall. Refined. His coat was stitched with gold thread, and a small silver crest glittered on his lapel. His boots were polished, his hair combed as though he had servants who only did that.
Then as if now aware of the situation he said. "Yes. Yes, of course I did. That was entirely deliberate."
"Well, I am Charles," the young man went on, placing a hand on his chest. "And who do I have the honor of addressing?"
Blunt brushed a piece of his hair back. "I am but a wandering hero."
Charles gave him a confused look. "Wandering hero?"
"Aye." he struck a pose. "Bartholomew Blunt. Saviour of the smallfolk. Guardian of justice. Slayer of... Ehm., Long story. But suffice to say, you are now among the fortunate."
Charles looked at him for a long moment.
"I see…"
"Then allow me do my part. Please, come with me to Merrowbrook Estate. My father, will want to meet you. You'll be given a hero's welcome, and a generous reward."
Blunt's eyebrows shot up. "So you're…one of those rich ones."
"I suppose you could say that."
Blunt stood in silence, truly tempted by the offer, but then shook his head.
"I would love to… but alas, I am on a sacred quest."
"Oh?"
"A mission of vital importance to the balance of things. Very secret."
"Then perhaps this will aid you," Charles said, reaching into his coat and offering a pouch filled with shimmering jewels.
Blunt recoiled. "I can't accept jewels. I don't like to carry heavy things. They clink. Attract birds."
"Birds?"
"Especially the judgmental kind."
Charles, clearly not sure if he was being mocked or knighted, offered a confused smile.
"Are you sure?"
Blunt nodded gravely. "The path of the chosen is rarely paved with rubies."
"Anyway, I bid you farewell, Master Charles. May your cloak always swirl and your pockets jingle in peace!" he said, brushing a speck of dust from the crust.
He turned elegantly, one arm behind his back, sword upright, and pie securely tucked under his other elbow.
And with that, he walked off, in half-whispers and victory hums.
Charles watched him go, as a small child nearby pointed and said, "Mum, who is that?"
"Oh, darling," the mother whispered. "That's Prince Charles, dear."
"The actual one?"
"With a crest and everything dear."
Charles then turned on his heel, bewildered. Possibly enchanted.
"…Father's never going to believe this."
———