five
The sun cast golden hues over the land as it began to set, dipping slightly below the enormous parapets and spires of the King's towering castle, which stood grandly in the center of the sprawling city of Camelot. As the day's activities began to wind to a close, merchants returned home with their unsold products, chambermaids and servants chatted aimlessly as they drifted out of the castle for their quarters, and a young, dark-haired boy played on the grounds just within the castle walls.
The boy, whose name was George, wasn't using much more than a few crudely-designed sticks and twigs for his play, and he was alone; but his enthusiasm and imagination made up for those shortcomings. A flat, broad piece of wood served as his shield and a few cleverly fashioned twigs made up his sword as he slashed and parried the air, letting out small cries of victory every time he defeated an imaginary opponent.
"Take that, take that!" he muttered, his eyes glimmering in the orange light cast by the setting sun. He was no older than five or six years old, gangly and short, his head a little too big for the rest of his body. Though he was inside the castle walls, his clothes looked no better than the average commoner's; they were made of rough material, well-worn and slightly dirty, and only collected more dust as he rolled on the ground, wrestling with the air.
"For Camelot!" George roared bravely before charging forward and immediately tripping over a clod of earth.
He hit the ground with an oof and his sword flew out of his hands. Groaning, George pulled himself up and started scanning the ground for his prized possession, rubbing his shoulder where it had made contact with the earth.
"Looking for this?" came an unexpected voice from his left.
George jumped and whirled around, where he saw another boy, his age, standing a few paces away and inspecting his toy sword with amusement. The newcomer had lighter hair and hazelly green eyes, and his clothes were much nicer, colored with expensive dyes and obviously made with much finer materials. Unlike George, this was a child that seemed to belong within the walls of the castle.
George felt a jolt of nervousness at being caught on the castle grounds, but after quickly looking around and seeing no adults nearby to shoo him away, that emotion was quickly overtaken by the urge to retrieve his favorite sword. "That's mine," he said, stepping forward and holding his hand out. "Give it back, please?"
The newcomer sort of laughed, though not meanly, turning the twigs over in his hand. "Did you make this?"
"Yes," George said, shifting nervously. He knew it wasn't very good, but he was proud of it; it had taken him ages to figure out the knots that tied the twigs together in the vague form of a sword.
"I like it," the other boy said, and George blinked in surprise. "What's your name?"
George felt nervous, thinking he probably shouldn't give his real name in case he was getting in trouble, and scrambled for the first different name he could think of. "Uh.... um.... it's Clay," he stumbled, his face immediately burning in embarrassment.
The other boy threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "No, it's not," he giggled. "You are a really bad liar."
"Okay, fine, it's George," said the dark-haired boy, rubbing the back of his head. "Now can I please have that back?"
