Sir Gilbert wasn’t anything special. Or, if he was, at least not in the good sense, and this was an agreed upon fact between every knight that knew him. Even Glibert himself agreed.

He was born to nobles, granting him the chance to become a knight despite the fact having him near so many sharp things was inadvisable at best. Yet, he made for an excellent page.

When Gilbert became a squire, his mentor, Sir Alaric, had adored and praised him to the high heavens. Though, it seemed his praise had dug itself down to hell in the following years.

At first, Gilbert was a skilled learner. His potential seemed to be a baby bird, unable to soar just yet. And so, Sir Alaric did what mother birds did best— he pushed him harder.

(Knight Alaric never knew much about birds.)

It seemed every waking hour was spent studying in some manner. Gilbert seemed half-awake most of the time, and when his skills seemed to get _worse, _Sir Alaric simply pushed him more.

“I see a jewel in you, my boy,” Alaric constantly sighed to him, exasperated as though _he_ was the one constantly being dragged through the mud. “It simply needs to… find it’s empty necklace, yes?”

Gilbert never replied, for he was taking advantage of the break to nap.

And so, uncertainly, Gilbert became a knight. Not the golden ideal, but the kind they needed for the war with the neighboring kingdom.

He could barely swing a sword without it bashing into something or _someone_ at that point. Gilbert often had the feeling that any skill he had was killed alongside his passion for his job, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

As other knights died in the skirmishes, Glibert, for all his stumbling, seemed to survive.

His fellow knights would tease him afterwards, toast to, “Gilbert, the knight who kills the ghosts of our enemies by swinging at air, and saves us from squirrels by chopping at trees.”

Glaring at them, he always downed his ale, and asked for another.

With every swing of his sword, it seemed like his potential was whittled down, and his passion for the job was smothered.

So, at the next skirmish, he threw his sword into the woods, and rode away with his horse.

And that was the last they would ever see of Sir Glibert, the Rough in the Diamond.

…

Every now and then, at the taverns Gilbert travels to, he hears travellers talk about him. They laugh about how he might’ve fooled Sir Alaric into thinking he had any potential, and whether that in of itself was a skill.

Gilbert never steps in to defend himself these days. He’s been alive too long for that.

And, though no one else is ever around to see it, his moderate success in re-teaching himself how to sword-fight and lance has been going well.

Though he can’t handle the stress of being a knight, he can handle becoming a diamond in the rough rather than a rough in the diamond much better.