A Small Hand

Darvell no longer remembered the day he had been captured — nor that he was a prisoner at all.

Anything before that was gone.

That he had fought them. That he had tried to protect the innocents. That, in the end, he had laid down his weapon for a boy who had grown close to his heart.

That he had ever had a heart.

He did not remember Frannie — though he saw the boy every day. Each afternoon, as he lined up with the others, Frannie placed a plate piled with stew into his hands — their daily ration.

His gaze drifted away, searching for a place to sit.

Only the instinct for self-preservation remained, pushing everything else aside. He had to eat.

He had lived here for many years. He had studied here, trained here, sworn his knightly oath here.

His gaze moved along the grey stone walls. One section was chipped — a jagged crack where something had struck the surface with force. The sight lingered a moment longer than it should have.

Splintered training dummies lay piled near the far wall, their frames broken, stuffing torn loose and scattered across the floor.

None of it meant anything to him.

Now it was nothing more than a place for distributing meals — and rubbish left between the walls, with no task to clear it.

In recent days, several small villages had been stripped bare. Darvell himself had gathered a few recruits for an order he had not even known existed. There were only tasks. And he completed them well.

He escorted his captives unharmed to the shift point, where overseers gave them new duties, new purpose. In the end, the shackles were removed — they were no longer prisoners, but… companions. The word stirred oddly within him, like a broken echo.

As he returned the empty plate, another order formed in his mind. New captives had been taken. He was to escort them in.

Darvell set out without hesitation. He knew exactly where to go, and what was required of him.

They were waiting in one of the guesthouses. They had not been idle.

Of the six prisoners, three were women. The oldest clutched a child to her chest, while their guards entertained themselves with the two younger ones.

The two male captives had resisted. Now they lay in the dust, faces bloodied, chained tightly together.

Darvell’s mouth twitched slightly. He had always delivered the goods to his masters intact. Damage reduced their value. But for some, that was not enough. They needed… something else.

The scrape of chains dragged over the stone. Laughter bled into the crying. The pleading didn’t stop — breaking, catching on breath, starting again before it could finish.

The sounds grated against him.

“Enough,” he said to his companions. “They’re already waiting for them.”

“Just a moment…” one of them panted. “I’ll finish with her, then you can take the little whore.”

Darvell bent down and hauled the men to their feet. He loosened their chains — just enough for them to walk.

“For this, I will kill you. All of you,” one of the prisoners spat the words — along with blood — into Darvell’s face.

“No. You won’t,” he replied flatly. The muffled sobbing of the women distracted him. He turned to his companions again.

“I said that’s enough,” he snapped. “Do you want me to tell them why I was delayed? You can continue later — once they’re on our side. They’ll be more compliant then.”

At last, the women were released. Darvell stepped closer and dragged them by their chains to the others. He did not wait for them to stand on their own or gather themselves. Then he went to the old woman and took the child from her arms, ignoring her desperate grip. The child began to scream at once. Darvell turned and started walking. Chains were no longer necessary. He knew they would follow.

In time, the crying gave way to soft sobs, then faded almost entirely with the rhythm of his steps.

The tightness in Darvell’s chest eased. He breathed more evenly, his focus settling once more on the task. He did not need to look back. The rattle of chains told him the prisoners were following — they would not attack while the child was with him.

His companions wouldn’t touch the child either.

A voice rose behind him. Then another.

The words blurred together — questions, pleading — meaningless, except for one, repeated again and again.

“What will you do with him?” someone called after him.

“Enough.”

He glanced down at the child. Tears had smeared across its face, small droplets still clinging to its lashes. Its wide, clear eyes reflected the sky.

It lifted a small hand and caught its fingers in Darvell’s beard.

Darvell reached up to free the strands from the thin fingers — but they closed around one of his instead.

The grip was weak and uncertain, yet unwilling to let go.

He stilled for a moment, the child’s fingers resting against his skin, and did not pull away.

When they approached the chapterhouse, Darvell looked up at the gate — or rather, the wall above the archway.

Short wooden beams jutted out from the stone in several places, as if they had once supported something. He had passed beneath them countless times.

But now — something was missing. What might have been there?

Only when his neck began to ache did he lower his gaze and glance back.

“Move faster,” he growled at the prisoners, then ushered them into the old stable.

“What will happen to us? Please… tell me. The child won’t be harmed, will he?” the old woman asked.

“You won’t be harmed,” he said. “No more than you already have been.”

He placed the child back into her arms and stepped aside, keeping watch until someone else arrived.

He was calm as usual. The task was done. The prisoners gathered. The child sat in his mother’s arms now, quiet.

Darvell glanced at him — and, for a moment, smiled.

Then his face tensed.

The adults would become companions soon enough.

But the child…