Thomas didn’t want to be a prince anymore.

At least, that was the thought circling in his head as he fought Geoffrey. [i]Clack[/i]. Thomas’s arm ached blocking Geoffrey’s attacks, who wore a malicious smile. 

Thomas backed up, flailing his wooden sword. His heart banged rapidly, like it was about to leap out of his chest. His foot hit a rock, sending him into the wet grass. 

Geoffrey approached like a killer. Thomas scrambled back, his shaking hand holding his sword up. “Stand up and fight, boy!” Sir Willis called.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears. Geoffrey smacked the sword out of his hand. “I yield!” he shrieked.

“Thomas the Lame!” the boys taunted on and on. He lay on the ground, sniffling, wishing everyone could disappear.

A hand gripped his arm. “My prince,” Sir Willis said. 

What happened next was a blur. He remembered himself bolting off, and soon he was up the stairs and in his chamber, slamming the door behind him. The light of his window turned to darkness as his sobs faded to sniffles. 

A knock sounded from his door. “Thomas,” Lord Tammen called, “May I come in?” 

Thomas wanted to sit still in the darkness and pretend he wasn’t there. After a time, he finally answered. 

Tammen entered, still dressed in hunting garb. “Hiding in the darkness, are you?” He lit the candles and sat down on the bed. “Thomas,” he sighed, “Your father bid me to make a knight out of you, how will I do that?”

[i]No, my father sent me away because he knew I’m useless[/i]. He looked down at his right arm—short, thin, and twisted. “I’ll never be a knight.” Out of all the songs and stories he’d loved to read of knights and heroes, none of them were named [i]the Lame[/i]. 

“Of course,” said Tammen, “but you are to be king someday. And the king must learn how to fight.”

“[i]I don’t want to be king![/i]” Thomas screamed, pulling the covers over his head with his good arm. “Go away!”

“Sir Willis was right about you,” Tammen said coldly, “I shall send you back to your father on the morrow. I shall be surprised if he doesn’t disinherit right when you arrive.” He left.

He hated Sir Willis and his training. [i]It’d be easier to turn the boy into a frog than a knight,[/i] he once declared to Lord Tammen. Yet, the thought of being sent back made him thick with shame. 

His sobs gave way to sleep. 

[hr]

He dreamt of his mother, of home, of laughter and smiles. The memories were a hall that he raced down blissfully. He hopped from one door into the next, until finally he met the final one, closed. 

His hand reached for it and brushed against the doorknob. It swung open, revealing a cold darkness. He felt it all in a blur—the biting wind of the night, his mother’s cries, and his arm being shattered in the wagon wheel.  

The hall melted around him when he turned around to run. He found himself running through the void, unaware of any direction, chased by shadows. 

For an eternity he ran, tears flying from his face and his heart beating with fright. When he could no longer run he fell to the floor, shutting his eyes and praying for a saviour to come. 

A knight appeared.

Covered in shining armour and a fluttering cape, he stood tall and gallant—as if he was straight out of the songs. 

The knight offered his hand to him, and he gladly took it. “To whom do I owe the honour, sir?” 

The knight put his hand on his visor and lifted it. Darkness filled the helmet. The armour fell apart, the scattered pieces melting into darkness. No one would save him. “[i]No,[/i]” cried Thomas.

[hr]

Darkness welcomed him again. For a second, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming. 

He jumped out of bed and crept down the stairs, running into the courtyard. He pulled a sword—a real one—off the racks. Twirling the heavy blade, he watched the moonlight dance along it. 

He pierced a straw puppet, watching bits of straw fly. Sir Willis’s words echoed through his mind—but for once, he felt confident. [i] I will fill the knight’s armour[/i], he decided. 

The next day, Thomas appeared in the courtyard, grinning, with sword in hand. And for the first time, the shouts of “Thomas the Lame,” were cheers.