Donnel paused in polishing his cookware helmet, raising it up to catch the light streaming in from the window. It gleamed in the sunshine. Sure, it had a few dents in it, but it made for a trusty makeshift helmet, and it had protected him so far through all his battles.

Well. All his one battles.

The village boy breathed a deep sigh, tossing the dented pot onto the barracks table with a metallic clunk. Who was he kidding, anyway? The Shepherds might have happily taken him along at the beginning of the Adventures of Donnel, but he'd yet to fight in a battle for the cause to date. Now their sizable army was training to face off against Grima, and his assistance hadn't been asked for once their entire journey.

"Donnel! We need your help!"

Donnel sighed. That wasn't entirely true, he corrected himself as Robin came dashing in. He rose as she approached him, and she stopped to catch her breath. Magic sizzled in the air around her—clearly she'd just come back from battle. In fact, he could hear the rest of the troops marching in, a panicked garble of chatter heralding their arrival.

"Well, tarnation, Robin," Donnel exclaimed as Robin still continued to pant without speaking, "what's this help I can offer?"

Robin glanced up. "Frederick got stabbed by an assassin on the battlefield really badly," she said between gasps. "We need hot water to wash some bandages in, but all our pots and pans are dirty. We're in a hurry," she added.

Donnel's heart, which had optimistically puffed up in preparation to help, deflated with the implied request. Really, this had been happening far too often. "I just wrapped up polishing my helm—er, my pot," he told her with a defeated sigh that she didn't seem to notice. "Go right on ahead."

"Thank you," Robin said, already halfway out the door with his shining helmet in hand. And then she was gone, the door covering flapping in the wind and the empty table the only signs that anyone else had disturbed his reveries.

Donnel threw himself back down on the lone stool and buried his fingers in his curly hair. "Darn it all," he muttered, then louder, "darn it all indeed!" He traced the scar on his cheek that made him feel so brave during times like these, but at the moment, all he felt was useless. "I reckon if they let me fight, why golly, I'd be the best darn soldier in this whole army!" he said with a pride he didn't feel. He let that false confidence hold for a moment, slamming his fist on the table. It hurt, but he pretended he felt nothing.

All of a sudden, his confidence caved in on itself. He sank back down to his seat. "Aw, who am I kidding?" he repeated out loud. "Even if they did give me a chance, I'm sure I wouldn't be much good, anyway."