15 November 2025
Once, he had been a legend, the Knight of the Western Vale, keeper of oaths, defender of the weak. His armour still gleamed where the sun struck it, though the straps hung loose now, and he often forgot which way to buckle them. He rose every morning before dawn, as he always had, polishing his sword until he could see a stranger staring back from the blade.
He set out each day upon his old grey horse, searching for a battle long since won. The villages he passed through were kind. They bowed, humoured his questions, and pointed him toward the horizon. “The dragon’s that way,” they would say, and he’d nod, spurring the horse forward, certain that today was the day he’d find it. By dusk, he’d forgotten what he was hunting. He’d return home exhausted, armour dented with confusion, muttering the names of squires who’d been dust for decades.
Inside his keep, the halls were quiet. Trophies lined the walls: shields, banners, portraits of a life he no longer recognised. Some evenings, he’d wander through them in full armour, calling for his wife, his brothers-in-arms, his king. No one answered. When his reflection caught in a polished helm, he’d startle, hand to his sword. “Who goes there?” he’d whisper, frightened by the old man staring back.
One morning, he woke before dawn and couldn’t find his sword. He searched the whole keep, room by room, until he grew tired and sat by the hearth. There he found it hanging above the mantle where it had always been. He looked at it for a long time, brow furrowed, then smiled faintly. “Someone’s kept it safe,” he said.
He never rose again after that. They found him sitting there days later, armour polished, back straight, his hands resting peacefully on his knees. Outside, the banners still moved in the wind, bearing a crest he no longer remembered a silver dragon, its wings half-faded, guarding a name already gone.
The Forgetful Knight • Opuss № I