A Myth of A Man

November 2022 | R-16 | 155,661 words Characters: Renard | Arsene, Camellia
Warnings: Graphic violence, suicidal ideation, body horror

Renard Cox, the bumbling son of a trapper living in a small, rural Western kingdom, is thrust into a conflict sure to shape nations as he becomes the favoured ward of his nation's new Lord. Yet soon he discovers that the true battleground is inside the heart, and that only in knowing the distinction between hollow devotion and true righteousness can any hero be forged.

A Myth of A Man

A wicked curse had been cast upon the Kingdoms of the West. Inflicted by a monstrous serpent that skulks in the pits of the underworld, what was once clean air now rots the dead into rabid beasts, and what was once fresh water now poisons fatally all who drink it. When monsters infest the countryside, and a sip from not even lakes or rivers, but even rain guarantees death, how does anyone survive? A Westerner would grin at this question, then boast. From the tallest crag to the deepest canyon, this land has never been easy.

Torn by fires, blizzards, winds, and drought, the Kingdoms here have warred since the continent’s creation. The regularity of natural adversities taught the West to stockpile such necessities as water, and the constancy of battle taught them how to handle their blades. Malevolent as the curse was, it could not wipe out the West. Cushioned by their hoards, kingdoms promptly set to trade, pillage, or improvise new supplies of uncontaminated water, while warriors rose to become legends upon the bleeding corpses of uncountable monsters.

So shortly this curse turned into just another challenge of life — one yet again conquered, essentially, by the West’s varied ingenuities.

But still, people remembered a time when clouds hung only as weather, not as reapers.

And still, people knew that death hadn’t always been so bitter, or cruel.

If anyone could curb the rising intensity of the water wars, clean the rivers, and end the rot, that man would be hailed across the West and even beyond as an unquestioned hero.

As anyone who had even glimpsed him could tell, Renard Cox would not be that hero.

Renard was born from the unpropitious union of a noblewoman from the kingdom of Lacren and a barbarian from the clan Tekse. Inhabiting the arid crags on the outskirts of Lacren, the Tekse were a more canny, and more delightful bunch than the word ‘barbarian’ would imply. Other marauders survived by brutalising travellers and pillaging their goods, but the Tekse knew something better.

They would kidnap the daughters of noble households and bring them home to the crags. They ushered these girls not with chains or threats, but comforting respect and professionalism. Once assured of their safety, and settled upon satin cushions, the curtain would raise and the Tekse would brilliantly display their speciality — for they were unmatched entertainers.

The girls’ eyes soon lit with spectacles. If somehow unimpressed by the men who breathed fire, or who swallowed swords, then the jesters, the acrobats, and the beastmasters would quickly woo them with performances never again seen or forgotten. Awe shattered the girls’ reservations. Pampered and treated to delicacies, they would be returned to their fathers with an implicit, but not enforced, demand for compensation.

At risk of earning their daughter’s resentment for short-changing the Tekse, that compensation was consistently high. And so the Tekse would prepare for their next mark and next performance, with success enough to sustain themselves for generations upon generations.

In fact, the Tekse were so famous and so successful, that noble girls of Lacren would boast upon being selected. It became not just a mark of status, or a fantastic story to tell, but a rite that legitimised their worth. Girls would actually dream of the day they would be kidnapped by the Tekse.

But everyone understood that this was a transaction. If there was any single rule of the arrangement, beyond the Tekse’s good treatment of the girls, it was this: you do not lay with the Tekse.

You do not lay with the Tekse.

But Renard’s mother, a firecracker, did it anyway.

Renard’s paternal grandfather, his mother’s father, was horrified to discover that his daughter was not only pregnant with a bastard, but likely pregnant to a Tekse. Before the news could circulate and disgrace the family, the grandfather locked Renard’s mother inside the estate and forbade her any guests. Once Renard was born, his grandfather wrenched him from his mother’s hands and sent him to live with a friend of a friend of a friend’s servant, far far away from anyone his mother knew, under the conceit that Renard was an orphan.

The couple that adopted him were peasants who lived in a backcountry village in Lacren. With only one son, and struggling to conceive new kids, they gratefully accepted Renard. As far as anyone cared, he was theirs. And indeed, if there were ever suggestions of secrets, or of a strangeness behind his being here — Renard could push those worries aside and assert that, as far as it mattered, this was his only family.

His father was gruff and stern. A trapper who hunted everything from rabbits to bears in the nearby woods, he was one of the village’s more prominent water-sourcers. Blood from his catches could be distilled, as was custom in Lacren, into water, topping off the local wells to supplement the aqueduct pipes from the capital. It was serious work, and he was serious about how he did it.

Renard’s mother was kind but frail. With a back too damaged for her to stand or even sit for long, she was principally bedridden and dependant on the rest of the family to care for her. That said, the thought of her condition restricting her children filled her with guilt. Her care relied far more on her husband than the kids, who she encouraged to go out and be active.

Then was Isen, Renard’s brother.

Lord above, that boy was a saint.

Principled, diligent, clever, and caring, something about Isen just shone with kindliness, skill, and potential. Everyone in the village adored him, so much they would wish he was their own protege, their own lover, their own friend, their own son, or own brother. For all that popularity, too, he never boasted or tried to do anything more than what he naturally wanted. He was just the type of person who always did things right, well, and with enough love to make people sense he was special.

More than just seem it — Isen was special. The local lord saw him one summer and, noticing that same spark of goodness everyone else had noticed, demanded to train him as a page. Renard’s parents accepted, Isen accepted, and so it was. Isen was trained like a nobleman’s child, to become one day a squire, and one day a knight. That such an opportunity fell to a peasant boy was beyond exceptional.

Everyone in the village celebrated, proud of Isen.

And though Renard would not deny that he too adored Isen, and too was proud of Isen, and too thought it incredible that Isen was his brother—

—it hurt, more than a little, to know that no matter what he did, he would never be as good as Isen.

People liked Renard. They didn’t adore him. He was bold and audacious and silly, always prone to doing or saying outrageous things that he thought greatly entertaining, but that others would acknowledge as a nuisance even if it did make them laugh. Kids who went along with his impulsive schemes always got scolded, as every time he would cross the line into something that was a little too much. He was cavalier and slow to notice when others were hurt. He wasn’t considerate, and for his obvious smarts, he didn’t like to think, as though terrified of the conclusions he’d draw. Though he never meant to bully or harm, he just seemed naturally prone to doing things that were wrong.

Still, he was conscientious and generally true to his word. He might slow down a job with his antics, but he would still get it serviceably done. People could appreciate that he existed because, for all his quirks, and for how ferociously he would showboat and try to impress, he was still a dependable and basically well-meaning boy.

As the seasons turned, Renard was soon skirting the deadline of that boyhood. Sixteen years old, as he stared over the fields with his chin planted on the butt of a pitchfork, the pressure to find a vocation was mounting. Soon it would not be acceptable to simply be the trapper’s son, who helped bale hay for one man on one day, then shopped for another on the next, then sorted produce on the next. ‘Errands!’ his father barked, ‘you won’t build a household on that’. He needed to commit to refining a trade, whereby he would eventually become Renard, the merchant, or Renard, the farmer, or Renard, the trapper.

Something about all these prospects, and the very prospect of being anything in this town, sickened him.

With his father’s frustration building, home grew less and less peaceful. Silent and not-so-silent expectations demanded for him to do something.

As that spring came to a close, Renard would find that something.