As I was traveling and tinkering, a young man—about thirteen or fourteen, though I've never been good at judging age—asked if he could come along, learn my trade.
I told him I don't take apprentices.
I did once. Well, one chose me.
It didn't work out.
Not for either of us.
It started, as most unfortunate events in my life do, with compassion.
I was crossing the Ashen Flats—once a battlefield, now mostly vultures and dramatic lighting—when I spotted movement beneath a ruined banner.
A young soldier lay there.
Armor cracked. One boot missing.
Clinging to life the way a squirrel clings to the idea of taxation.
"Easy now," I said, kneeling beside him. "You're not dead. Yet."
He coughed weakly. "Are... are you Death?"
"Not today," I replied, and gave him a healing potion I'd been saving for a particularly nasty blister on my heel. A very painful one, mind you.
The boy blinked. "You saved me."
"I also once saved a duck from a pit. Don't read too much into it."
His name was Tobin.
Seventeen. Extremely grateful. And immediately convinced I was his new life's purpose.
"You're a healer," he said. "A wandering sage!"
"No," I said. "I'm a deeply tired man who talks to his boots and once tried to cook a shoe out of boredom."
"I shall be your squire!"
"You shall not."
He followed me anyway.
Day One: He polished my walking staff.
It became so slippery it nearly killed me.
Day Two: He cooked breakfast.
We both cried. The eggs never recovered.
Day Three: He began calling me Master Sam.
I told him not to.
He added a bow every time he said it.
To be clear, Tobin meant well.
But meaning well is how you get flooded temples and burnt eyebrows.
Once, he challenged a bandit to a duel because the bandit "looked impolite."
He lost.
I had to bribe the bandit with my emergency cheese to get the boy back.
"You're teaching me so much!" Tobin said afterward, proudly cradling his black eye like a trophy.
"I haven't taught you anything," I said.
"You taught me cheese is powerful."
...Can't argue with that.
He insisted on carrying my pack.
Which was nice, until he tripped over it and fell down a hill.
Twice.
On the same hill.
On a sunny day.
With no wind.
At an inn, he told the entire tavern I was a "great and wise hero."
I was promptly challenged to arm wrestling by a half-orc who wrestled trees for fun.
Tobin cheered the whole time.
I lost a rib.
One night, as we camped beneath a sky so starry it made you feel small and poetic, Tobin asked me:
"Why did you save me?"
I didn't answer right away.
Because honestly, I didn't know.
Then I said, "Seemed like the kind thing to do."
He nodded. "Then I'll keep following you until I can do something kind enough to repay it."
I sighed. "Or until you fall into a river."
He fell into a river the next morning.
Eventually, I got used to him.
He was loud. Clumsy. Idealistic to the point of delusion.
But he meant every word he said.
He never gave up.
Not on himself.
And, bafflingly, not on me.
Five years.
Five long, noisy, exhausting years.
That's how long Tobin had been at my side—tripping over roots, challenging squirrels to duels, and once attempting to cook stew in a boot "because it already smells like meat."
He had grown.
Taller. Broader.
His voice dropped from chipmunk-on-fire to something approaching tolerable.
He'd mastered basic swordplay, could heal minor wounds, and had even stopped screaming at spiders.
Mostly.
I won't say I was proud. That would be too generous.
But I had grown accustomed.
Which is why, on a lovely morning in Windmere, as I adjusted my socks and pondered the meaninglessness of goose politics, Tobin turned to me and said:
"Master Sam... it's time I left."
I blinked. "Left what? The tavern? The table? Because if it's the table—good. You ordered fish for breakfast and I'm offended on principle."
He shook his head, glowing annoyingly in the morning sun like a romance novel protagonist.
"No, I mean left you. I've learned all I can. It's time I found my own path."
My left eyebrow arched in betrayal.
"You're firing me," I said flatly.
"What? No! I'm just... I've met someone."
Of course.
Romance.
My oldest enemy.
Her name was Mirielle, a village apothecary with kind eyes and absolutely no appreciation for how much I'd invested in Tobin's emotional development.
"She likes my poetry," he said.
"You write poetry?"
"Only about her."
"I helped you survive a banshee during a thunderstorm, and you've never written me a poem."
"That wasn't romantic."
"It was dramatic."
He smiled like an idiot in spring.
And so, Tobin packed.
A well-worn sword.
A slightly magical frying pan.
A lute I never knew he owned.
As he prepared to leave, he turned back to me.
"Thank you, Master Sam. For everything. I wouldn't be who I am without you."
I crossed my arms. "I should curse your boots."
"You wouldn't."
"I should."
He hugged me.
I stood there, arms stiff, heart oddly full.
Then he left.
I watched him go.
Watched him take his hopeful grin, his youthful optimism, and his suspiciously scented travel cloak.
And for the first time in years, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
The next day, I caught myself making two cups of tea.
The day after, I muttered something sarcastic and looked around, expecting a laugh.
Silence.
On the third day, I found a pair of socks he'd left behind.
I kept them.
Don't judge me.
Weeks passed.
I visited villages. Forests.
One haunted bakery.
Everywhere I went, I half-expected to see him tripping over something.
He didn't.
Until one day, I received a letter.
Clumsy, heartfelt script:
Master Sam,
Mirielle says I'm terrible at chopping herbs, but I'm improving.
I taught a group of local children how to hold a sword without injuring themselves.
One of them tried to knight a cow. I stopped him just in time.
We're happy.
I hope you are too.
I'll always be your squire.
Even if I don't carry your socks anymore.
With gratitude,
Tobin
I smiled.
Then immediately sent back a reply with footnotes on how to properly slice mint without bruising it.
They grow up. They leave.
Sometimes, they do it for love.
Even if their new beloved stores potions improperly.
But that's alright.
Because kindness isn't about keeping.
It's about letting go.
Even if they owe you exactly four pairs of socks.