Robert

When Robert’s sideburns had begun to creep down his face and his chin began to coarsen, his father, whom I had served for many years, entrusted me to him. Although cherished by his father, Robert cast me aside and expected me to welcome him back upon his return. Tarnish quickly swept over our point of contact like a sunset, illuminating my edge. Nonetheless, as sparse, soft bristle turned to stubble, we began to meet more frequently. The tarnish left me no choice but to nick him. Personally, I thought the blood was the worst part. I hated leaving scars on those whom I love. Scars do not heal.

Not long after his 16th birthday, Robert’s father, George, went for a stroll. Well rehearsed, he weaved through the same old side streets and alleyways, through the same gates and parks. Yet, something unusual caught his eye. Something that he’d never seen on any of his walks through his part of the city. It was a man, standing not much taller than George. The collar of his deep black coat reached his jaw and a long, weighted hood obscured his face in shadow. He stared George down. The man was built well, “like a soldier” George had thought to himself. Instinctually, he turned to leave the park. As he pivoted and began hastily walking away, the oddly dressed man drifted to flank him, hovering in the far corner of George’s peripheral vision. Then, as George reached the edge of the park, the odd man’s fist collided with his left temple with a force so great, it knocked him to the ground. Not enough to kill the poor man, but enough for him to lose consciousness for the duration of time that it took for him to be dragged to a small cellar.

Unbeknownst to us, his father was beaten and tortured. I will never forget the care yet urgency in Robert’s stropping in the days that followed his father’s disappearance. Four days passed before Robert found his father in their courtyard. It was a gruesome sight, with limb and bone ground to a viscous solution that sat in a wooden bucket. His head was perched atop the solution, propped against the rim so as not to sink. The young boy never was quite the same after that day. Truth be told, nor was I. We never saw each other again when it came time to shave. In fact, I would be made to serve a new purpose to him.

Rumours of a ‘guild’, an ancient organisation who fought for justice, had been passed on over generations. Albeit, usually as bedtime stories to children who might have had a misunderstanding with the wrong City Guard. The Guild was comprised of defected soldiers and remarkable fighters; highly intellectual and able to see what is imperceptible to others. Robert was fortunate enough to remember a piece of information from a fable his mother had told him years ago: to contact The Guild, one must place two shillings and a letter of request in the old oak in Hoxton Square. Clinging to what seemed like his last hope, he travelled to Hoxton Square with two shillings and a piece of parchment.

Encased in mahogany, I sat waiting. Longing. Years went by before I finally met Robert again. When I looked to Robert, I saw not the boy that had placed me in a cage, but a man with determination, patience and skill. Unbeknownst to Robert, his plea to The Guild set in motion events that would lead to his own recruitment. Kept from all of our knowledge, George sat on the Council of The Guild and orchestrated numerous raids and assisted in countless investigations. The Guild had grieved George’s death as much as his family did. However, they knew the true cause of his death. His slaughter. Blinded by the ignorance he had adopted in old age, George allowed himself to be lured into Bedford Square alone. A man he’d been tracking was simply attempting to tidy up loose ends and was given an opportunity to do just that.

***

Now, after a restless slumber, I feel prepared to do whatever it be Robert asks of me. I cling to his belt like a child to a mother, afraid of what may ensue but eager to venture nonetheless. Yet, I feel... stagnant. Itching to act. I shiver at the thought of George’s killer. I am ready for Robert’s hand whenever he so desires. Nonetheless, The Guild Council provide Robert with the information he seeks: the location of his father’s killer. I can feel the uncontrollable tension pull on every muscle fibre in his body at the sound of the killer’s name.

We ride for days on horseback whilst I remain fastened to Robert’s belt, safely sheathed so not to damage his white, flowing silk robe and black leather padding. As we near the town, the anticipation is tangible; the horses are bounding with unprecedented strength, sidemen and women speak no words through their pursed lips and stark expressions. Quickly dismounting, we scale the stone fence. We sneak to the wall while staying as low to the ground as possible. Robert scales it alone, climbing to an illuminated window with as much haste as if fleeing for his life. With a final heave, we leap into the room. The killer, now a frail old man struggling to keep himself seated upright, is mere metres away from Robert. Gliding across the room, his memories of his father play in his mind like a symphony. He reaches for his belt. The latch over my sheath flips open and I am drawn out swiftly. The candlelight casts no shadow across Robert’s impassive face. Then, with a single deadly swipe, I meet the neck of a man for the first time in a decade and taste the iron in his blood