On Patrol by Anna Andriychuk

“Hello, kind sir, could you please tell 

this old hag how to get to Hayward Street?” a kind-looking old lady cautiously asked, her voice barely registering behind the ruckus of the bustling market all around them. Her clothes were by no means new, but certainly well-cared for: covered with many carefully woven patches and intricately stitched together holes. The brownish shall on her head covered her grey hair, with a few unruly strands peeking out of it.

“Hm?” A young man turned his head abruptly, his brownish locks swaying profusely. His stare was fierce, yet the second it found its target – it mellowed out, becoming something more palatable for a civilian to see. “Ah, hello to you as well, mam’,” Harrold bowed slightly, the golden plaque on his chest shining brightly under the still-warm rays of early September’s sun, “If you head straight down that street and then turn left at the second crossroads, you shall safely reach your destination.”

“Oh my, so polite! Well, thank you, kind sir,” she smiled brightly, rummaging for something in her basket before handing it over. “Here, please, have this.”

“Oh, u-um,” the man hesitated, glancing at the supposed bun while clenching his fists, “I-I apologise, but we are not permitted to receive offerings from civilians on duty.”

“But I insist!” She forced the pastry into Harrold’s hand, carrying more strength in her body than an old woman should’ve realistically had, “You know, I have such poor memory! I’m sure you told me to head right on the second crossroads, hm?”

“A-alright, alright, I’ll take it,” the knight sighed in defeat, his face contorting in exasperation. Safety of the citizens was much more important, after all. A right-up is palpable in exchange.

“Wonderful! And would you look at that, my memory has returned!”

“How, um, w-wonderful indeed…” the knight smiled awkwardly. He then coughed, straightened himself and offered the usual salute, “May you be safe on your journey! Glory to the-!“

A scream.

Loud, piercing, childlike scream. A little girl’s, most likely.

His heartbeat quickened. The world around him came to a halt. Everything became silent. Nothing but that shriek existed in the moment.

He ran. A vein bulged on his forehead, sweat dripped profusely from his temples.

Memories flashed through his mind. Old, unwelcome, painful memories.

He was a few years younger, just starting out as a squire. Still full of himself, ripe with that annoying youthful arrogance he now cursed relentlessly. If only he hadn’t ignored her. If only he wasn’t so stupid as to think that something like that was an appropriate behaviour for a father. If only he stopped for a second to think that the two were nothing alike. If only he hadn’t listened to his lazy incompetent bums of a “friends”: ‘avoid it’, ‘she’s just behaving like a spoiled brat’, ‘do you really need to involve yourself in family matters?’. They did not deserve to be called knights. And he? He was one who deserved it the least for having listened to them.

He still remembered the sight that greeted him. Her body, bloody, lifeless, abandoned in that dark and gloomy valley. And now it blocked his vision. He kept running, knocking down people and some other meaningless things in his way. Someone was screaming at him, but he didn’t care. Didn’t bother to give it even a fraction of his attention.

And then he arrived at the scene.

Heaving, he tried to focus his vision, let himself observe his surroundings. Prepare for the worst. Ready a necessary course of action.

What greeted him, however, was a small, young boy, crying desperately as he hugged his broken wooden horse, his mother frantically trying to calm him down, seldom glancing around her in what appeared to be shame.

“Billy, I understand you’re upset, but-”

Even more desperate crying followed suite, turning a few disapproving heads towards them.

“Oh! Sweety, look, Sir Knight has arrived to the rescue,” the woman cooed at the kid, nudging for him to look up, giving the knight some pleading looks of her own.

“What?” Harrold blinked at the two of them, wide-eyed, still desperately trying to catch his breath.

It was not-

He was-

“Ah, yes, hello there, little one.”

Mistaken.

“Would you like this tasty bun while we figure things out?” He hoped it was, at least. Harrold looked back after the kid took it, trying to catch a glimpse of the old woman that handed it to him, but she was already long gone.

Whatever. She probably went on her way. She should be safe if she followed his instructions. Yes, that’s the only thing that mattered.

Right now he was simply… glad he was wrong.