My parents always fought.
It was like the only language they ever shared.
It was like that's all they knew how to do.
Three Months ago, a priest knocked on our door.
The priest spoke of a Templar preparing to march in the Crusade. He needed a runner, an errand boy to carry messages, polish armor, and clean boots.
My parents didn't hesitate. To them, it was a holy calling. A chance for their son to become a knight. A way to wash the family name clean in the eyes of the Church.
To me?
It was a sentence.
* * *
I'm Trevor Williams, and I'm seventeen. I've been nothing but an errand boy for three years.
The Templar's name is Sir Andre. He's an arrogant and self-centered man, growing weaker every day.
He coughs up blood at night and pukes randomly during the day.
I've been up since before dawn, preparing his armor so we can keep marching toward Jerusalem.
"Hey, boy! Bring me my helmet!"
I turn toward the door, pick it up, and carry it in.
I see Sir Andre hunched over, coughing blood.
"Sir, I brought your helmet."
Sir Andre looks towards me, a small twinkle in his eyes, almost relief. Then he falls backwards.
He slams his head against the ground, a crack, then blood.
I rush over to lift him, sliding a small towel under his head.
Someone calls from outside, "Sir Andre? What's going on in there?"
panic claws at my throat
"It's nothing, my good sir! Just a little clumsy, that's all!"
I look down at the dying man.
I don't think anyone has seen him without his helmet.
I could take his place.
Who would know the difference?
My hands shake as I unlatch the armor. I strip off his surcoat, mantle, and cloth forming his cape.
Then I quickly pull the gambeson over my clothes and fasten the plate mail one by one.
Breastplate. Spaulders. Bracers. Greaves.
I cinch the belts and secure the sword to my hip. Hook the shield to my back.
Then I grab the helmet.
I stare at it for a long moment.
And I put it on.
It takes me a few tries to latch it properly, my hands fumbling with the straps.After what feels like an eternity, the helmet locks into place.
I turn back to the tent one last time, then walk out into the light.
* * *
A bunch of heads turn and stare at me. They look as tho they see right through me.
Do they know he's dead? How could they know?
"Hey! Andre, where's your little errand boy?" comes a voice from straight ahead of me.
"Oh, h-he must have run off in the night! I can't find him anywhere," I say, sweat dripping down my face.
Suddenly, another Templar walks up and slaps a hand on my shield.
"It happens to the best of us! No need to be upset about it."
"Y-yeah! You're right."
I'm Sir Andre now? Does that mean the original me is dead?
I pick up a spear from the ground, stabbing it into the ground.
"As a leader of the crusade, I say we head out and attempt to meet the larger group down south!"
The rest of the templars look at each other. One of them finally speaks up, "Say, Andre, did you shrink in your sleep?"
I whirl around, fear consuming my body.
"I could've sworn you were slightly taller than this."
I attempt to speak, but no sound leaves my throat.
"Now that you say it, I see it too," says another Templar.
"G-guys, I'm the same height I always was."
"Yeah, he's probably right. I bet we are all just tired from this trip."
I sigh in relief.
Everyone turns and begins to march, continuing the journey we were sent on.
* * *
Noon comes around, and the sun is beating on my back.
The heat resonates through the metal armor.
This feels like a damn oven in here. How did Andre ever do this?
I stab the spear in the ground, using it to stabilize his walking.
We should be getting close to Jerusalem by now.
It can't be much farther before we are forced to fight.
In an instant, the sound of a drum can be heard over the grunting and rustling of us knights.
I look over, catching a glimpse of a man with his head wrapped him cloth riding a horse, wielding a scimitar and a wooden shield.