The next several weeks, the old man and John gave me a crash course on maintaining the farm. During the winter, the focus was around keeping the cold out and the heat in. All the preparations had happened during harvest time when the food was packed into the cellar, the field stripped to aid melting snow in spring, hay used to provide insulation for chickens, and not to mention stockpiling the woodpile. Granted, John had gone lazy on this matter and we found ourselves in the snow, chopping down ice covered saplings and having to dry them out beside the hearth.

At night, I spent my days helping John learn to read and write. It was the one thing Old Farmer Paul couldn’t teach him, despite his position as a Lord Knight. If John wanted to be a Priest, he needed to master these skills before he dares step foot in Captiva City and walk through the Abbey doors. It wasn’t that the old man couldn’t read and write, but teaching it had been something he failed to do time and time again with John. Which of the two would grow too frustrated with the other first and derail their efforts was hard to say. Watching them all this time, they both had the same stubborn glare when they refused to speak further on any of the disagreements that unfolded between them far too often. I had found myself using my “gift of diplomacy” just to get them to part their lips to answer me, dancing between them, playing the peacekeeper.

Spring came and the arguments quelled. Perhaps being trapped indoors had been part of the issue after all. The snow had barely melted, the field brown and muddy with ice, when the Old Farmer insisted, we break it up.

“It’s half-frozen.” John crossed his arms, the exchange of glares sharp enough to cut the air itself. “I’m not going to break my back over it.”

The Old Farmer’s eyes danced between us, gnawing on his pipe as he mulled over the thoughts in his mind. I’d learned over the winter this never bode well for John.

“Look,” John’s arms unfolded, and his tone softened. “I’m going to check the meadow, see if it’s thawed out yet. We both know you wanted some of the wild carrots and Indian tobacco for the garden this year.”

I lifted an eyebrow, “Are we learning to compromise?”

John’s face flushed; he had been caught stealing my method of peace-keeping during the winter. “It just works out best for everyone.” He spun on his heel, leaving me with his back and hiding his face. “I’ll grab the bucket and be back with whatever I find.”

We disappeared and the weight of being alone with the old man hit me. During the snow and blizzards, I’d been busy entertaining and learning more about John. Looking up at the old blue eyes, a sobering realization hit me. My future would be with him, not John. Swallowing, I waited in silence, unsure what to say or do.

“He likes you.” A billow of smoke poured out of the Old Farmer’s lips as he sighed, sitting on the edge of the porch.

“I like him t…” I paused, catching the look in his eyes as the smoke cleared between us. “He’s going to make a fine Priest.”

Is he mad? He can’t mean…

“Take the hoe there.” We both evaded the topic, Paul gestured to the tool John had left leaning on the post. “Start breaking it up.”

“But I thought it was half frozen?” I grabbed the hoe, walking to the edge of where the mud hinted the start of the field’s edge. Tapping it against the slush, the ground. “Yup, it’s still frozen.”

“I said break it.” The tone and glare from Paul made me flinch. “You’ve got to build up the muscles before we can train the muscle.”

My eyes widened. “Training, huh?”

He nodded, puffing on his pipe with short, impatient sucks.

“As you wish, Lord Knight.”

Holding the hoe, I peered down at the mud with a scowl. Blisters and callouses hinted their displeasure. I had earned them chopping frozen saplings, and here I stood before a task John didn’t even dare to attempt. With a heave, I brought the hoe down. The metal piece bounced off the ice, jarring my arms and shoulders. I let go of the hoe in alarm, pumping my fist to fight the numbness the impact brought on. It was a horrible sensation, lasting far longer than I had expected.

“Pick it up.” It was a command; Paul rose to his feet adding to the authoritative presence. “If you hit a shield hard enough, it’ll jar you like that. Get a worthy opponent and lock blades, it’ll jar you again. That mud is your enemy, and your John’s shield. Don’t let me see you drop that hoe again until it breaks.”

My heart dropped, his words stabbing deep. I swallowed picking the hoe off the ground. The mud had gained a new level of intimidation.

John’s shield. No, I want to be his sword. I don’t want to just take blows but deal them; I want to cut a path for John to walk so he can move forward with his dream.

Gripping the hoe tight, I brought it down hard. It bounced once more, vibrations threatened to rip the hoe free and I pulled it back to me. With another motion, I swung it back around, leaning into the strike. The hoe stuck.

“There you go.” The old farmer sat down, pleased. “You gotta put your weight in there. If you’ve been jarred, you put that energy back into the next swing. You’ve got good instincts, Prince…”

The old man and I paled.

“Don’t,” I whispered. I’ve kept it quiet, avoided it at every turn during the winter. Don’t you dare slip up now, old man. We both know if John figures it out, our plans to live out our days here lost to the world would be over, or at least for me.

Sighing, he confessed, “It’s hard, ya know. Being my age, knowing my place from your place, but here we are, a Lord Knight teaching a Prince to be a farmer.”

There was a humor about it and we both couldn’t keep the smiles from creeping between us.

“Just don’t tell John.”

“No, it’s your place to tell John.” He added before motioning for me to continue. “He might have figured it out, but he’ll want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

I tugged the hoe free and shifted my stance, avoiding the subject. If breaking the frozen ground called for my weight to be thrown, then so be it. Again, I brought it down, this time I broke the ground. A tug towards me and I flipped a patch. Another strike and again the jarring rung into my elbows and sent muscles aching. Taking in his words, I re-purposed the energy and added to my next swing. The hoe struck closer to the already broken ground. It gave way, sinking deeper. My body was on fire with the feat of only a few strikes. Inhaling deep, the aroma of dirt was filling the air, a satisfying scent that brought proof of the work unfolding. I had found my enemies weakness but aiming close to the last strike would prove hard with numbing hands, wrecked joints, and burning muscles.

I had reached from one end of the field to the other. A single rupture of mud between me and the porch where the old farmer sat, silent. Sweat dripped from my chin and my body sore. No wonder John had refused. Panting, I pulled off my shirt. The cool air gave me the reprieve I had hoped it would bring. Burning muscles fought the cold shiver on my skin, sending goosebumps across my pale body. Snorting, I was white as the snow dabbling the ground, my arms flushed from my efforts added to my pitiful appearance.

Looking to the sky, noon had passed me by, but I wanted to keep working. I broke ground on the second line. The jarring had dulled, or I had accepted it. My strikes were more consistent, though as I crept closer to the porch, my misses were increasing. Frustrated with my results, I pivoted and began the third row. Quicker now, my strikes tightening closer once more. I hit the end and turned again. As I landed the hoe on the last strike. I realized it had grown dark, a lamp lit there on the porch between Paul and John.

My face reddened deeper on top of the flushed exhaustion. “W-when did you get back?”

“Two rows ago.” John answered, his eyes on the field. “I could have helped you, Dante.”

My eyes skirted to the old man who said nothing. “I’ve never swung a hoe before, so I figured it was good to start.”

“You lie.” John’s eye shot up catching my own in their fiery blue gaze. “No one swings like that on their first try. You’ve done similar work.”

Slumping my shoulders, I sat down on the porch next to him, staring at the field. “You’re right. I’ve mucked my share of horse stalls and cleaned out some pretty big hearths.”

“He’s no stranger to hard work, John.” The old man stood, pausing at the door. “I’ll make supper, you rest and get some water in you, Dante.” And the door shut.

Silence fell between us. Afraid to peer at John, I tried to pull myself to my feet only for the world to spin and my balance wavered. John’s hand gripped my upper arm and I hissed, the muscles sore and burning under the heat of his grip. He eased me down and the worry written on his face swept my breath away. Before words could be exchanged, he rushed away, around the corner of the porch where the squeak of the water pump echoed in the dark of night. Leaning forward, I cupped my face into my hands, fighting with my body and my heart. I could still feel the heat of his fingers on my arm and it sent my stomach fluttering.

I’m just tired. So much has happened and I didn’t stop for water or food. It’s just exhaustion… isn’t it?

“Here. Drink.” John sat next to me with a dented metal cup and bucket of fresh water. “Next time, at least drink something after running a row. That’s what I do.”

Nodding, I gulped down one cup full, then another. “I’ve never been so thirsty in all my life.”

John laughed, “You work that hard in the summer and you’ll find today not so bad. It’s good to hydrate, especially a guy with little muscle like you.”

Another slurping of water and I mocked him, “So you noticed I wasn’t much of a hard worker.”

“How could I not?” His eyebrows rose high, smirking. “You’re so pale, I thought a ghost was breaking the field.”

We both laughed, “I can’t argue on that. That was my thoughts when I took my shirt off.”

“Tomorrow I will help you.” John stood offering a hand to help me to my feet.

“No,” I ignored the extended hand, standing with renewed vigor. “You need to be prepping for joining The Church. Let me take care of things, learn and do for myself.”

“You’re going to kill yourself being this stubborn,” his tone soured.

“I could say the same for you and your grandfather.” I snorted, reaching the front door. “I may look fragile, pale and soft even, but remember, I’m not human John. I’m not the same as you.”

Pushing through the doorway, I evaded him.

All I can ever be is your sword, your shield, and maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll come home and ask me to be your wall.

Sitting at the dinner table, I scowled. My body throbbed and even the hairs across my arm seemed to scream in pain. To beat across frozen mud had been more taxing than surviving a day out on the battlefield. I had only done that once in my short-lived reign as prince. Shaking my head free of the memory, John had come in, lugging the bucket of water.

He sat it beside me, slamming a cup full of water in front of me, “Drink.”

“I won’t have any room left for dinner if I do,” I retorted.

His face reddened, “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Shrugging, I ran my hand over my head and paused where I had cut my braid.

“How many knots did you have?” John’s words were barely audible as he muttered across the table, glaring at me.

“I don’t remember.” Not this again…

“Liar.” His forehead creased. “Why don’t you just grow it back?”

“I suppose I could.” There was no hiding the fact I wouldn’t and couldn’t tell him. 16 knots. The braid of a prince. Cut off to a servant’s level. Treason by many standards. “But I don’t know if I deserve to have it back.”

“Grow it back.” John’s tone snapped me from my exhausted daze.

“Is that an order from my keeper?” I mused.

“It’s my only order. Grow it back by the time I come home as a Priest.” His chair screeched as he stood, “I’ll eat in the morning,” and his door slammed shut.

“How selfish,” I muttered at the shut door.

“Is it?” Paul dropped a bowl of stew in front of me. “The same could be said about your own actions and secrets, Dante.”

Groaning, I relented to silence, unwilling to reveal how right he was on the matter. I leaned over the bowl and shoveled the food into my mouth. My body felt starved, the energy I took in still miles from what I had spent out in the field. Seeing the bottom of the bowl lasted only seconds before the old man scooped another helping into it. I looked up at him and he smirked, a softness in his eyes I had only seen him give John.

“But…” I wanted it, the potatoes and carrots with hunks of meat.

“But-nothing,” he retorted. “Eat, I need you to keep your energy high and building muscle fast.” He placed the pot on the stove and eased into a chair with his own bowl. “I want to be able to train you properly, but we’re on borrowed time. Claymores are heavy, unlike that hoe. You think the jarring on frozen mud bad, then you haven’t felt nothing until your claymore hits a sturdy shield in the wrong spot.”

“R-right.” I scooped a few bites up and pondered on the matter. “Why the Claymore?”

“It doesn’t just cleave through things, it can take off limbs.”

My stomach turned, I remembered being in a medical tent for bloodeaters. Every severe injury were cases of missing or mangled limps. “I see. It’s the best weapon against the opponent you faced.”

“Falco has a scar.” I paled, my mind seeing his naked form and remembering the way he snarled when I had asked about the purple line stretching across his ribs on the right and wrapping down toward his lower back. “Did you know I had landed a nearly fatal wound on the Viceroy?”

“That was you?” Dropping my spoon, cheeks red, a sobering expression written on my face. “He never told anyone what happened.”

“You’ve seen it?” Paul’s frown deepened and I could feel the old man peering into my soul as if he could see my regrets. “He’s manipulative, you’re not the only one he’s spun into his web of lies. If I had known…”

Shaking my head, I raised a hand. “I was young and blind. Looking back, I should’ve seen it or accepted what I knew at heart. Let’s just not talk about how or why I know of the scar.”

“And what do you intend to do with him?” The old farmer pointed a spoon at John’s door.

“Nothing.” My voice was low, weak as my heart ached. “He will be a priest, taking a vow of celibacy. I have no intentions of falling in love with your grandson…”

The spoon slammed on the table, jerking my eyes back up. “Are you deaf, boy?”

I could hear his words from earlier echo through my mind, he likes you.

Standing, I leaned over the table, my eyes on his as I whispered my answer, “You want me to be his shield. I want to be his sword. When John leaves this place, I will be just that. Nothing more, nothing less. His mind will be filled with teachings of a world far greater than me or this farm. I am a tool for him, left behind as a gift by his grandfather to ensure he succeeds with his life intact.”

The old man’s face twisted, and he nodded.