Agravain's roll of thread (Patreon)

Agravain's whole life would come undone, all because of a roll of sewing thread. Not that their life had ever been as neat and put-together and lovely a thing as that roll. No, it had always been a tangled mess from the moment they were born, and kept growing knottier and knottier.

The roll now stood in the middle of the table, lone and accusatory, limned by a shaft of light. The thread was a beautiful, deep amethyst purple that had caught Agravain’s eye. Interest quickly turned to dismay as they realized that their coin pursue would only be able to cover the fabrics they’d picked. So they bought the latter and made to snatch the former. They didn’t agonize much over the choice but they were now lamenting their carelessness. The bustle of the market had lulled them in a sense of security; who could keep track of what nifty fingers were doing when everyone was reaching out to feel the textiles or examine buttons?

Unfortunately for Agravain, the peddler had a hawk’s eye. His hand came down in a vice-like grip around their wrist, twisting it as to reveal the stolen roll nestled in their palm. No amount of protestations or denials of the theft – they were simply picking it up to look at it better, they were intending to buy it, it’s all a misunderstanding – could convince the vendor otherwise.

What followed was a humiliating march towards the nearest guards’ station where the ones in charge of overseeing the entrance hall loitered about, chatting without a care in the world. They scrambled to put on a serious expression as the peddler went on about the crime. His diatribe attracted forth one of the older guards, who sauntered onto the scene eating an apple. This face Agravain knew well.

Lina Becker often came round the castle on official business, strutting around in her shiny armor with the guards’ emblem embossed across the chest and the Camelotian-red cloak fluttering behind her.

She didn’t look the least surprised to see Agravain there. “Rivlin,” she said, then took another bite of her apple. “What brings you here?” She spoke as if they’d met each other in the street on the way to buy groceries.

In response, Agravain crossed their arms and scowled at the floor. The day was getting worse and worse.

Before the peddler could launch again into his heated explanation, Becker shuffled them all into a chamber and grabbed a younger guard on the way to jot down the account of the theft. While the peddler swung his arms around and spoke with indignant passion, she scribbled dutifully away. Becker listened, eating unbothered as if it was a funny little anecdote.

She chewed unhurriedly. The sound– crunchy, wet, loud – gnawed at Agravain’s flimsy nerves. Then she said: “These are serious accusations, Rivlin. A squire stealing? Doesn’t spell a trustworthy future knight.”

The words, and the careless way in which they were tossed, prickled the back of their neck. The dread was quickly followed by a red-hot wave of anger.

All for a stupid roll of thread. Pretty, purple, quality thread that would have looked so nice on the garments they needed to patch and the ones they wanted to make. It didn’t even cost that much. The peddler could have slapped their hand away and chased them off with a tirade. Agravain certainly wished they could have just dashed off, but their legs liquefied the moment his fingers locked round their wrist. Beyond the mist of panic, they knew running away would do them no good.

Unless they could have lost themselves in the crowd.

The peddler balked. “They’re a squire?”

Agravain bit the inside of their cheek, hard enough to sting.

Becker stepped outside to order someone fetch Sir Elias, deciding to let him handle the situation as he saw fit. A courtesy – not towards Agravain, but towards their mentor.

The wait was torture. It dragged on and on to the point that Agravain hoped the vendor would grow tired of it and return to his cart. But he was mulish and craved justice. So Agravain bit their lip, dug their nails into their arms and pinned the table with a frown.

They wanted to believe Sir Elias would come, solve this mess, and agree to let everything be forgotten; as angry as the vendor was, he couldn’t step over the words of a knight for just one roll of sewing thread. Yet a part of Agravain feared this would be the point at which Elias realized they were more trouble than worth – and decided to cut the cord.

Blood drummed in their ears; it was so silent in the chamber, yet so loud in their head.

This wouldn’t be the first time they’d got caught up in some commotion that Sir Elias had to come in and settle, thought it’d never entailed stealing before. He wouldn’t just toss them to the side like that, would he? After eight years of training and dedication, he’d see them through. He had to. It was in both of their interests.

And if he did discard of them as one did of a dull, damaged sword? Eight years of hard work – eight years of dedication – eight years of grinding their teeth and pouring over books and sweating on the training ground for nothing. It could be release; it’s not as if they’d chosen this path for themselves, as if they wanted to serve under a House that loathed them. What release was it though, to be left with nothing, to lose the lifeline and sink to the bottom and drown there.

No. They needed this. That was why they trained till they bled. All of it had to be worth something, all for the chance to escape this place.

Their skin itched. Their body was too small to contain so much writhing, squirming dread. Unwittingly, they’d started bouncing their legs – to calm themselves, to give an outlet to that mounting tension. It kept growing and growing, a cauldron bubbling and spitting and boiling, about to overspill. Was this what the vendor wanted, to see them slowly unravel like sewing thread that’d slipped between your fingers?

When the door finally swung open, Agravain flinched.

Today was Sir Elias’ day off duty, and they couldn’t fathom it made him any more well-disposed to deal with this matter. Yet he took the time to don his armor – it explained the torturous wait – as a statement, no doubt. He could have come in his lord’s clothes. They were fancy, but they didn’t command the authority shiny plating did, bearing the Kanev family symbol, which Agravain abhorred.

The younger knight stood up straighter with a tinny clink of armor. Becker simply smiled.

All Elias yielded to them was a cordial nod. Then he turned his gaze on Agravain. His face betrayed nothing and that was the worst.

“I understand Agravain’s been accused of theft,” Sir Elias flatly said.

“Yes,” the peddler cut in and held up the roll of thread between thumb and index. “Of this!”

Agravain wished the floor would just gape open and swallow them whole. All this fuss over that little thing; what a pathetic theft it made for.

Elias’ blank gaze shifted from the thread to them, but Agravain dared not meet it directly. “Is it true?”

Agravain gave their reply to the table. “Yes.”

“I see.”

This was it, then. The unraveling of the thread, the severance of the string. No more knighthood, no more promise of a better future.

No more taunting of how they’d fail at it anyway.

Elias turned to the vendor and said: “How much for the roll?”

Agravain took in a sharp breath. They flicked their gaze up at him, numbed by relief. The knight’s face was carved stone.

The peddler lifted his chin and told him the price. So little coin for someone like Elias, so much trouble for someone like Agravain.

Elias weighted the peddler’s answer then reached into his satchel, producing considerably more than was asked for the thread. “The coin for what was taken,” he said, “and some more for your trouble, with the hope that this doesn’t need further mentioning.”

The vendor looked finally appeased. “Of course,” he graciously accepted the offer. Off he went, so preoccupied with his heftier purse that he’d left behind the roll of thread.

It continued to stand on the table, near a knife notch in the wood. The shaft of light that’d framed it was slightly askew as the sun moved up into the sky.

Becker strolled forward with a wry smile on her lips. If Agravain had been in a good enough mood to pay compliments, they’d have found her to possess a certain rougeish charm about her – and rogueish ways about herself, too.

“How much for my silence, huh?”

Elias’ chest raised the tiniest bit with the quietest sigh, but his fingers still shifted towards his satchel. The young guard’s eyes darted between them, wide and alarmed.

“I’m jesting,” Becker said, clasping a gauntleted hand over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, old friend, this stays all between these four walls.” She glanced at the younger guard, who nodded earnestly.

“Could I have a moment alone with my squire?”

Becker saluted him and headed for the door. As she closed it behind her she called out, amusement tinging her tone: “Stay out of trouble, Rivlin.” Like this was all a grand joke.

The door clicked shut and Agravain was alone with Sir Elias.They finally dared look at up his face.

Now that the others were gone, the shield had lowered. Agravain wished it hadn’t. There was still a certain flintiness to his features, but the disappointment was plain to see as well.

“Why did you do it, Agravain?” He spoke calmly, almost softly. Less like a guard asking questions and more like a parent admonishing a child after mischief, trying to get to the root of it.

Troubled had cleared and so the cloud of anxiety was slowly dispelling. Through it seared anger. “I bought everything else I got from him,” they said, with more heat than intended. The way the vendor spoke, one would believe Agravain had cleared their shelves of every fabric and needle. “I bought them with my own coin, but I needed the thread too, and I didn’t have enough, so…”

“You stole it?”

They tried to slip it underneath their sleeve as they had times before with other little things, when the need arose.

Agravain’s siblings had no such cares as them. Whatever they asked for was provided and they didn’t even need to know the cost of it. Anything could be summoned for their convenience.

When it came to Agravain, their basic necessities were met. They had food on the table – hearty food, so their body could sustain such extensive training as being a squire demanded – and they had clothes on their back. Linen, not the nicest or softest but durable enough. The tunic they wore now too had been an unimpressive brown they spruced up with embroidered green leaves. They’d grown accustomed to its scratchy texture too but the tension had rendered it salt ground upon their raw skin.

”It wasn’t even that expensive,” Agravain grumbled. “The fabrics cost more, and I paid for them.”

“You could have stolen one meager needle,” Sir Elias said, “it’d still be theft.” Agravain’s jaw set but he went on, mellower: “If you really needed thread, couldn’t you have gone to the castle tailors?”

Their shoulders slumped. This was wearing them down worse than waiting quietly in this room for their fate to be decided. How many times hadn’t Agravain went to them? And they were kind enough to help, but there was so much they could do and so much they could offer.

“I already went to them recently,” they said.

“I could have given you the money if any of your garments needed patching.”

There were those who tried to wear it thin, but Agravain still clung to some pride. Pride that allowed them not to grovel at the feet of a man who told them to renounce frivolous little ideas and pour their all into the sword and the craft and the study of a knight. They gave no answer. Sewing, for Elias, was to be practical. Agravain balked at his lack of imagination.

“Agravain.” Elias’ tone had hardened again. His palm come down to rest splayed against the table and he leant forward, demanding their attention. “You’ve been given a great opportunity. Do not squander it on petty theft.”

They huffed and muttered, “It wasn’t petty.”

“Did you say anything?” It was a challenge – one Agravain was wise enough not to take.

They breathed in deeply through the nose. Don’t bite the hand that feeds. Even if that hand is a closed fist.

“No, sir,” they said.

“Good.” Elias paused, shifted then put his hands on his armored hips. “One day, you’ll wear the armor and bear the sword and be able to afford all the damned thread your heart desires. But until then, you must behave yourself. Lest you wish to blow all these years of hard work and become a scullion or stable hand.”

There was no rancor or disgust in his tone yet it nettled Agravain all the same. Sir Elias spoke of it as a punishment. One he didn’t wish to deal, but punishment nonetheless, in the form of a job nobody could possibly want. They weren’t glamorous careers but they were what the court so heavily relied upon. Those pompous asses talked and thought of them like this, yet where would they be without their servants? The ones working silently and diligently and tirelessly. Scrubbing their shit, cooking their food, washing their clothes. Keeping their horses fed and combed. They were the ones who had to put up with their employers’ whims and tempers. It could be such a thankless job at times, as they’d learned from their mother.

Indeed, Sir Elias was right; Agravain didn’t want to serve the likes of nobles.

“Yes, sir,” they said. There was a bitter taste of bile on their tongue.

“Let’s go then. Gather your things and we’ll return to the castle.”

Agravain grabbed their satchel and followed after him but not before snatching up the roll of thread. Sir Elias watched them from the doorway with an inscrutable expression. It was disappointment, or perhaps resignation. Agravain had just failed an unspoken test.

They didn’t care. They’d been through so much for that damned roll of thread, they might as well take it and make the best of it.