Shadows of Consequence - 9. Chapter 9

Following Mr Newham’s speech, Sam said that he—himself alone—would bury his parents. Beforehand, he felt unsure he’d have the resolve to follow through, but the chief’s words had given him the strength he sought. With his jaw set firmly, he fought the reluctance to look upon his parents’ wrapped remains. The way they’d been enshrouded—hands over their chests and legs together—made them appear more like rough stone carvings. Not quite human. That helped.

It took some urging, but he managed to have the villagers leave so he could complete the job. Their help had already exceeded his expectations, and while they meant well, having them around had grown exhausting.

Mr Kent was the last to leave. “I’ll craft a bronze plaque with an inscription,” he said. “You can affix it to the tree, if you like.”

While it was difficult, Sam managed a smile. “That’d mean a lot. Thank you.”

The blacksmith took his leave, speaking while he headed down the hill. “And you only come back to work when you feel ready, y’hear?”

He left without waiting for a reply.

The first few shovelfuls of dirt were the hardest. Sam settled the damp earth over the bodies as gently as he could, as though tossing it in would’ve hurt them somehow. It was absurd, he knew, but it helped get over that hurdle. Once they were hidden by a layer of dirt, he found himself able to drop more liberal shovelfuls.

All the while, Graeme maintained his constant vigil from afar.

The afternoon sun had begun its descent over the Rothgoraian peaks once both graves were filled—now mounds of dirt. Sam stumbled and sat abruptly on the grass nearby. The exertion had felt good, but he was lightheaded now. At that moment, he realised he hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink all day. His mouth was parched. Water would do well, but the thought of eating turned his stomach.

After using the shovel to lift himself to his feet, he approached the knight. As always, he couldn’t detect the man’s eyes through the visor's slit, but there was no question Graeme’s gaze was locked onto him.

“You ought to eat,” the knight said, as though sensing Sam’s weakness. “There is pottage cooking. One of the villagers prepared it.”

“What about you? Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“You must be hungry.”

“My needs are unimportant.”

Sam looked away, unsettled that Graeme would forego eating on his behalf. While he knew circumstances such as fighting adversity could bring strangers together—creating a common bond that would otherwise not exist—he didn’t believe the knight should’ve suffered on his behalf. Graeme gave the impression they were friends, but Sam didn’t want to delude himself again by falling into that line of thinking.

“You must be hot, standing in the sun encased in your armour.”

Graeme shook his head. “As I stated earlier, I treat this armour as my skin. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” He gestured toward the farmhouse. “Shall we?”

Crossing the threshold of the front door was more difficult than Sam cared to admit. He was relieved to find his parents’ bedroom door remained shut. There was no sign the house had been filled with villagers mere hours earlier. Everything was in its right place. No dirt on the floor. The pottage bubbled gently on the stove—its savoury scent trying its best to entice Sam to eat. The kitchen table had been set for two, with a carafe of water acting as another lure.

Sam took the bait, pouring water into two cups, then handed one to Graeme. Of course, Graeme couldn’t drink with his helmet on, and Sam found himself eager to watch what he would do next. Sam knew it wasn’t his place to ask, but right now, he was yearning—almost desperate—to catch a glimpse of the knight’s face. He didn’t care what he looked like.

Through his actions and words, Graeme had shown his true nature, and it was good. Sam knew his flustered attraction to the knight had been purely physical at first—more specifically to the armour he wore—but that attraction had grown into an appreciation of the man enclosed within that blue, magickal steel. He couldn’t deny pitying Graeme. It was painfully unfair that the knight deemed it best to mask his face. Sam couldn’t understand why his face brought the knight such hardships. He wanted to say it shouldn’t matter—that Graeme could reveal his true self to him—but that would disrespect the knight’s own beliefs.

Ultimately, to Sam’s disappointment, Graeme placed the cup on the table instead of lifting the visor to take a drink of water.

“Why don’t you change out of your armour,” Sam said. “You could wear your long hood so we can eat together.”

“Yes, I’d like that. You can wait?”

The hint of a smile crept onto Sam’s lips. “Of course. What’s a few more minutes?”

“Very well, but please drink. You look pale.”

Sam sat at the table while the knight retired to his bedroom. Upon taking a sip, he found himself gulping the water down and pouring another cup. Once his thirst was finally sated, he glanced up at the bedroom door with a dispirited sigh. He had truly hoped Graeme would’ve removed his helmet, but he knew it was a selfish desire. The reality was they barely knew each other. Graeme was undeniably uncomfortable showing his face. Why should that change in Sam’s case, even in spite of the hints of camaraderie between them?

Graeme appeared at the top of the stairs wearing his gambeson and hood. Even from Sam’s low position, the knight’s hood was drawn so far forward that his features remained obscured—yet more evidence he had no intention of revealing himself. As Graeme descended the stairs, Sam gathered the two plates to serve the pottage. He filled Graeme’s plate, but only portioned half a ladleful for his own.

Noticing Sam’s plate, Graeme said, “You must eat more than that.”

“I dunno if I can even eat this.”

“You must try, Sam, to regain your strength.”

“I know, but my stomach . . .”

Graeme gave a supportive nod. “I understand.”

Despite the endurance and stolidness Graeme exhibited during the day, it was blatantly obvious he was ravenous by the way he dug into his meal. He retained his manners, but only just. Sam couldn’t help but smile. Graeme had always held himself in a distinguished manner, and he spoke with such a tactful cadence, emphasised by his foreign accent. Others might’ve seen his manner as reserved, but Sam found it charming. Now, the knight’s gallant demeanour had been pushed aside. Seeing him like this, no one could deny he was no different than anyone else.

By the time Graeme had finished his plate of food, most of Sam’s meagre portion still remained. Sam’s stomach roiled at the few bites he’d eaten. He didn’t feel sick, but he questioned if that would change if he pushed himself to eat more.

He gestured toward the pot. “There’s lots more if you’d like another plate.”

“I may do,” Graeme replied, glancing over to consider the offer.

“You shouldn’t have denied yourself food because of me.”

Graeme turned his gaze back to him, his back straightening—reforming to his knightly stature. “Solidarity can bring strength to those in need. And you, as my squire—”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face in his hands. “Please, don’t call me that,” he croaked.

“I apologise. I meant no offence.”

“You didn’t offend me. It’s just . . .” Sam let out a frustrated sigh, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “I’ve always been fascinated by knighthood, chivalry. The armour you wear. The code you live by. It’s a life worthy of praise. To be part of that, as a squire—it shouldn’t be joked about. I’m not your squire, I’m just a blacksmith.”

“Do not disparage your profession, Sam. It is equally as honourable as being a squire, perhaps even more so. You create tools that aid others.”

“It’s not the same—”

“Yes, it is.” The tone of Graeme’s voice had grown harsh, but he wasn’t angry. He’d only raised his voice to reinforce his point. “We help others, Sam. The differences in how we do so are inconsequential.”

Sam didn’t agree, but he didn’t want to argue, so he remained silent as Graeme continued.

“While we’ve only met, you’ve shown me your qualities many times. I said in the past I would be honoured to have you as my squire. This was not said in jest.”

Sam scoffed, surprised to notice a teardrop hit the table. He casually wiped his eyes, distraught and humiliated that his emotions sat so close to the surface. But then Graeme’s words echoed in his mind.

“Are . . . are you . . .”

He found himself unable to ask the question for fear of seeming a fool. Was Graeme truly offering him a chance to be his squire? The idea of it was preposterous. Although Sam hadn’t completed his sentence, Graeme patiently waited in silence.

“Are you really asking for me to be your squire?”

“Your life has been thrown into chaos, Sam. Now is not the time to ask profound questions that would impact it further.” He rose from the table. “Eat what you can and then rest.”

“But—”

Graeme raised a hand to interrupt. “Forgive me. I ought not to have said that. Not today.”

Sam didn’t want the conversation to end. He wanted an answer, but it was clear Graeme wasn’t going to provide one. Perhaps he regretted putting the idea in Sam’s head.

“But how long will you stay?” Sam asked, hoping that might give him a clue whether he was serious or not.

“As long as need be.”