My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid.
The ground was frozen when they buried his mother. It wasn't so much that the extra effort it took to dig her grave that bothered him, as it wasn't Sam who was arranging the funeral and it wasn't him doing the actual digging. It was that if the ground was too solid, his mother would not be able to climb out of it if she was, in fact, alive.
When he told this to Arobynn Hamel, the man simply smiled and whispered gently, "She would suffocate either way."
My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid.
He was glad that, on her funeral day, it was raining. His mother hated the rain, but she was dead anyways, and she hated seeing Sam hurt even more. The rain masked his tears, and tears would have gotten him beaten. He was sure of this. Arobynn Hamel did not seem forgiving.
My name is Sam Cortland, he thought as he tried to stop his tears, and I will not be afraid.
The flowers he laid on her tombstone were wildflowers he had picked from patches spread across the cemetery. The groundskeeper was not a good one, and Sam was grateful for this because his mother's grave would have received no flowers if he had been. None who attended the funeral carried anything in their hands besides umbrellas and clutches. Dandelions, daisies, clovers, and ragwort were better than nothing.
He didn't really listen to the priest as he spoke solemn funeral rites. His mother would not have approved of them anyway. They were not religious people. If gods did exist, they didn't love Sam, and they hadn't loved his mother.
He was reminded of this as they lowered her coffin into her frozen grave. He was reminded when he sprinkled a handful of dirt on top of it. He was sure of this when all of the attendees had left—all but him—and the gravediggers had finished filling up the six-foot hole. He was reminded so harshly and truthfully of this when he laid the wildflowers on her gravestone, and when the wind blew them all away, and when he crumpled on top of where they had been.
My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid.
He was reminded that the only one who loved him was dead, and he thought My name is Sam Cortland, and it is okay for me to be afraid. He started to cry, and the sobs exploded in his throat, his chest, his mouth, as he chanted I am afraid. I am afraid.
I am afraid.
Arobynn Hamel's carriage waited for him outside the cemetery when he walked out. He was sure his face was red and puffy, and his eyes too, and that his skin was pale and clammy, and that his clothes were soaked in mud. He was sure he looked as dead as his mother.
He was determined to not face a similar fate, because that was not what his mother would wish for him. He would do what he could to survive in a world without her.
My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid.
"You'll need to be cleaned up," said Arobynn Hamel to his new apprentice before he knocked on the ceiling of the carriage, and the harsh snap of a whip launched the horses into motion.
Celaena Sardothien was a pretty girl. She wore a baby blue frock with white lace. It accented her eyes and complemented her pale gold hair. She paid no attention to Sam, but she tugged on Arobynn's sleeve and asked him who the stranger was.
"You've seen him before," he replied, and the two boys moved on.
They walked down numerous hallways and up numerous stairs, so much so that Sam was positive he would get lost, finding his way back to the front door—or anywhere, really. The Assassins' Keep, he thought. Judging by the sheer number of bedroom doors he saw, Arobynn Hamel had many pupils and was responsible for many deaths. Then again, they might not be bedrooms.
He showed Sam his room, and told him to finish eating breakfast by eight-o-clock the next morning to be ready for his first lesson. He said nothing else, but Sam figured that if he needed to, then he wouldn't be good enough for him.
Celaena Sardothien opened his door a minute later. He could not see her, but he knew it was her. Sam was curled up on his four poster bed, staring at the bloody maroon walls. "Yuck," she said. "Your room is ugly. You should paint it yellow."
He did not reply.
"Who are you?" she said. "Are you a new apprentice?"
He did not reply.
"Because I'm Arobynn's apprentice."
He did not reply.
Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, lying next to him so they faced each other. He smiled at her.
That's what his mother used to tell him to do. Smile. Smile for all the people who can't. Smile for them.
Celaena did not smile back. She frowned. It was a pretty frown—probably prettier than his smile. It made him smile wider. He would not think about his mother, his mother who was gone, and he would not think about his future, which was full of blood and terror. He was thinking about now and this. He was thinking about Celaena Sardothien, the girl right in front of him.
"I am too," he said. "We both are… I guess you'll just have to share."
She scowled. Her nose scrunched up as she bared her teeth. He could have sworn for just a second that they had sharp, pointed ends, but then he blinked, and he saw only straight, white, perfect, human teeth.
"We'll see about that," she grinned viciously.
He shook his head. He almost said I don't want to, but then he figured he would be forced to do many things he didn't want to do. He might as well get used to it.
"He'll be mad if you kill me," he said instead.
"Only if there's proof," she corrected.
He almost shuddered. "My name is Sam… Sam Cortland." And I will not be afraid.
"I'm Celaena. Celaena Sardothien."
"I know," he said. "I've met you before at a party."
She did not admit the fault of her memory. "I probably didn't notice you because you're so unthreatening," she shrugged.
"I only noticed you because you were wearing an ugly dress," he lied.
"I don't have ugly dresses."
She probably didn't. She didn't seem to be the type of person who had any. All of her dresses were probably perfectly pressed and fitted too. "Well, that one was."
"Liar."
"Meanie."
"That," she winked. "I am."
He smiled at her again. "I think I will paint my room yellow."
"Blue's a better color," she said.
He laughed. Any color would be better than the horrendous bloody one his room was now. The burgundy bed sheets would have to go too. The rugs were disgusting as well. He wondered if he might be able to convince Celaena to help him redecorate.
Sam was smitten with her. He had been at the party when she had smiled and replied to every comment directed towards her with snark. He had been enamored, captivated. It wasn't love yet, but it was something.
"What about green?" he asked.
She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "It depends on the shade."
"Gold?" Like her hair, and the inner rings of her irises.
"If you paint your room gold, I will burn it down with you in it. The world did nothing to deserve someone who paints walls gold."
"Not metallic gold," he said.
"That's yellow."
He grinned. "Yellow, then."
"Goodbye, Sam Cortland," she said. He thought she might kiss his cheek or something along the same line, but she simply slinked off the bed and walked away. The door clicked shut behind her.
He suddenly couldn't breathe. The red walls were too bloody for him, and he felt trapped in a life he never imagined he would have, a life he never wanted, a life he didn't know was worth living. He didn't know if the life of an assassin was better than that of a courtesan's, and he didn't know if his mother's choice had been the right one for him. He did not want to kill people. He would have to now, however.
His mother's advice came to him, and he imagined her ghost standing right next to him, stroking his hair and humming away the silence.
Smile.
My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid.
A tear trickled down his cheek.