Pike bounced idly on the balls of his feet as he waited for Blight to finish drafting the new questionnaire. Papers were sifted, scanned, or tossed to the side as the sounds of scratching blended with the crackles of the kindling in the enormous stone hearth. Rakim held back a cough that threatened to draw unneeded attention. He massaged the damp skin beneath the iron shackles ignoring the dull ache that radiated over the back of his hands.

    “That should be enough for the time being.” Blight cleared his throat while preemptively stretching in his seat. “Now then, let us begin with the basics: what is your full name?”

    The thick browed man in chains winced as he translated the words as fast as possible before guessing the rest. “Rakim.”

    “Pardon?”

    “Rah-kheem,” he enunciated knowing he may never hear his name spoken correctly for a long, long time.

    “R-right…” Blight wrote out three versions before settling on the one that looked cohesive in script. “And your age?”

    Blight repeated until the message became clear.

    “It is no longer certain to me. I am young...I am not young; somewhere there,” Rakim nodded with vague certainty.

    “Not too bright but he’ll have to do,” Pike chuckled to himself as he fetched chairs for them.

    “Do you understand what we are asking of you?” Blight gazed up from his desk yet failed once more to lock eyes with the timid man. He watched Rakim nod slowly and his shoulders settle until Pike set a chair behind him. Cautiously Rakim lowered himself into the seat after watching Pike do the same.

    “Do you have any titles? Or land? Family we should be aware of? You are not already wed, are you?”

    “No.”

    “N-ot married? Or…?”

    “No. I have nothing.”

    It was Blight’s turn to raise a brow. “Nothing? Not even a horse?”

    Rakim shook his head.

    “Wait, you were a bandit,” Pike cut in. “You must have gotten a cut of the haul.”

    Rakim shook his head then paused. “I do have something.” As if by miracle Rakim produced a large blade from places unknown that rivaled the length of his forearm. The blade caught the orange glow of the roaring hearth that rolled across the curved edge as it was handed safely to the startled executioner.

    “What about the horse you rode in on?” Blight asked nonplussed.

    “I only control it. It is not mine to own.”

    “But I searched you,” Pike murmured in astonishment. “Took a bucket full of blades off ya.”

    “What are your specialties?” Blight redirected. “You know, like talents.”

    Rakim calmly retrieved his knife from the still puzzled Pike and turned it in his palm until the edge faced upwards.

    “Where can I-ah! There!” He eyed a thin space within the bookshelf behind Pike and focused. He did one dry swing feeling his hand was at the wrong angle. With a minute adjustment Rakim drew his right hand to his ear and released in unencumbered motion. The knife sheathed itself between two tomes nested further apart than their sister editions with a firm thud. Pike rose to inspect Rakim’s work.

    “Shit! And not a bit of leather lost.” He removed it cleanly with a playful twirl.

    “I can hunt. I can cook and mind the home if she cannot. I will keep her safe.”

    Blight transcribed carefully knowing he may have to embellish in many areas to sell Rakim’s simplistic features.

    “Rather lofty promise to make, don’t you agree Captain? After all, it takes more than good aim to woo a woman. Women these days want men who can manage a business as well as a sword. How do you plan on bringing wealth to your bride? You haven’t a home nor anything to wage as collateral. No titles mean no status, no status means no momentum which means she may end up having to diminish her own value just to compensate for...everything.” Pike returned to his seat and crossed his legs. “So you can sweep a floor and hunt, but so can any other gent in the land. What can you truly-”

    “How many suitors are there?”

    Pike nervously turned to notice the aggravated look Blight was wearing. “Er-I’m not allowed to say; it’s tradition.”

    “She must be very ugly,” Rakim concluded.

    “What of your faith? Don’ know what Gods rule your homeland but here we have just the one. We have sabbath, trade unblended cloth, baptise our young. You willing to abandon your faith for her eternal soul?”

    Rakim slouched as he contemplated how to answer. The itching spread from his wrists down to his forearms growing difficult to alleviate as the irritation stretched beyond the reach of Rakim’s fingertips. The lock brought back an odd sense of nostalgia as he tugged his sleeve between the damp metal before wrapping it around the main cylinder; with sheer force Rakim twisted the lock forward, sliding it out of place and on to his lap. Pike stared in silence as the solid iron was calmly pulled apart and handed to him still unharmed. Rakim kneaded his sore wrists. “Yes, for I shall be forgiven. To believe is to sacrifice. I will do it.”

    “How do you feel about children?” Blight scrawled as quickly as he could.

    “As many as she wants.”

    “As if she is barren?”

    “We may raise a lost child. I do not need blood children.” Rakim massaged his forearms then sighed. “I hope not to frighten her. My past-- I am no innocent man. I was a bandit and that will bring shame to her house. Her name can be poisoned. That is too cruel for her.”

    “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” Pike chuckled. “If your past was a problem you would have never been given this choice. We are prepared for the risks.”

    “There is something I can give you,” Rakim straightened up in his seat. “I can tell you where the Bandits killed. I know their secrets; I know how they spin lies!”

    “Oh? You’ willing to betray your own brood?”

    “It is my dowry.” Rakim lowered himself to a bow. “What do you wish to know?”

    “Feeling better?”

     Blight groaned as the tendons in his hands eased out of a vicious cramp. Pike removed the uncomfortably cool, damp cloth from the nape of his Captain’s neck only to replace it with a fresh heated one. “Never seen you go through so many sheets of parchment in one sitting.”

    “We only managed to process ten of how many dozens of men. Rakim’s confession was...thorough. And I have yet to send an official word to the King. Where did you put our candidate?”

    “The holding chamber above. We can keep an eye out for any attempts at foul play. I hear the Judge is furious. A fit of anger is all it takes. I’ll have to convince ol’ Sentry to lend us a watchdog.”

    “Thank you,” Blight sighed.

    “First impression?”

    “Well, he’s desperate and that’s exactly the type of man we had hoped for. His English is poor which may cause issues; patience is not Royal’s virtue.”

    “I’m aching to know what the lad is hiding,” Pike’s voice dripped with enthusiasm.

    “Only you get excited over those sorts of things.”

    Pike brushed away stray brown hairs to their usual seat behind the Captain’s ears. “You should tuck in early; you’re a wink shy of sleep and we’ve been at it for a full day now. You hardly got to eat.”

    “Soon. Just want to send my findings to the King before I retire.”

    “And how long will that take? Enough. You need rest.”

    “I’ll be fine. Another hour and I will go straight to bed. You need rest yourself and I’m sure Knot misses you.”

    “Knot can wait a while; it won’t kill him.”

    “No,” Blight yawned with a stretch of his throbbing hands. “Go. He pines and paces when he doesn’t see you for a few days time. We’ve been busy with this for a month now. You need a break as much as I.”

    Pike huffed knowing Blight was right. Knot was the type to sulk when Pike disappears for more than two weeks and grow sick with worry. “I could slow down for a time.” Pike gave the Captain’s shoulders a tender squeeze before parting ways.

    Stoically the King stared at the two stacks of parchment before him. The right was filled with the hastily written reports, littered with asides and footnotes, from his Captain. To the left was the neatly centered correspondence on pure white pressed paper sealed with a falcon shaped crest in wax. Each relayed a similar tale of attributes, virtues, and lofty promises.

    And both said yes.

    “The thief or the baron? Curs in their own right I suppose. But which is the better man?” Curved words swam around the page flowing freely from the monarch’s fatigue riddled mind.

    “Two more days. I shall grant them two more days.”

    Slouching into the worn highback of the wooden chair the King shut his eyes for the first time in several days.