Putting Down Your Best Friend

The Iron King happily invites Renard into his office.

Truthfully, the plan was to run him through the second Renard got in the room. But the King’s guileless smile and plain happiness to have an interruption from this work, that is not just any interruption, but an interruption of Renard, does make Renard falter.

The Iron King chirpily informs how the work is going, excited to share it. All the national wells have been filled without trouble, and these water yields are the highest Lacren has seen in decades…

How your name shall last in song…, Renard says.

Well, it’s not about that, says the Iron King. Simply, it is a relief, and truly gratifying, to know nobody will be thirsting this year. I would not be so bold as to build a fountain… he smiles slyly, jesting. But it tempts me to say, we could afford to, with how the children may laugh and splash.

Is it not a grim thing, to frolic and drink of a man’s blood?, Renard asks.

The Iron King quiets a slight. It becomes custom, he says, and most will not question… does it bother you, Renard?

I shall hear the screams in every cup.

I see. The Iron King folds his hands and glances down. He truly wishes there was another way things could have gone. If these foreign kings would simply leave us to our affairs, or restrain the loathing the label ‘hexant kingdom’ reflexively evokes, just long enough to scrutinise the character of this land not by my birth, but for my rulings… but the Pilamines have made it clear, this will not be a humility ever afforded to me. The land we have taken is fertile enough that we should not ever again need to war.

The Iron King closes his eyes.

But it will come to us.

That is your fault! Renard’s fist tightens around the hilt of his yet sheathed sword. The Pilamines killed no Herjas, used no lives as grist, and compelled me to butcher no children! You utter monster, have you not seen why what you have done is wrong!?

For as long as you seat the throne, Milord?, asks Renard.

Yes. Renard, I truly wish… but as he opens his eyes, his tongue freezes. He stares stupefied at Renard’s blade-ready fist, like a child uncomprehending of their parents’ fury. Innocent fear and guilt flash in his gaze, but drain quickly as if smothered and numbed. He regards Renard now with a crocodile’s blank, but calculating stare.

The sentiment isn’t even, so even you have betrayed me. Or, You found me out, then, Renard.

It’s, Watch this — glory denies you again.

Renard grits his teeth and shings his sword from its scabbard. The Iron King surges forth to parry the incoming blow with his hand — and shrieks in confusion and pain as the blade slices through his palm, up his wrist, up his forearm, to imminently lodge in his chest. He adjusts his trajectory at the last moment to claw for Renard’s neck, but Renard swiftly sidles aside and flicks his sword, momentum flinging the Iron King hard against the wall. Renard adjusts his grip to stab the Iron King through while he is disoriented — heedless, like a feral animal, the Iron King leaps straight for Renard yet again and impales himself on the blade.

The blade spears out the Iron King’s back. Squealing, folded over it, he messily tries to slide himself off with his hands, but only cuts open his palms. He sets his feet on the hilt to push himself off that way instead, yanking backward so hard the strength overwhelms Renard, who releases the sword. The Iron King tumbles backwards into a pile on the floor.

The Iron King scrambles to pull out the sword as Renard catches his breath. The Iron King wobbles to his feet, using the sword as a cane, but his bones and skin are cracking and breaking under their own weight, fragile as eggshells, by such close proximity to the sword. As the Iron King drops the sword, Renard throws the office chair at him. The chair lands a direct hit on his skull, which shatters open and splays its innards like fruit pulp over the floor.

The Iron King collapses, struggling on the ground, but unable to orient or move more than twitching and spasms. He gasps out a mournful prayer, “Renard!"

The point of the blade lands in his throat. Draws downward to his chest.

“Then shatter."

With a final twist, in his heart, the Iron King at last lays still.

As he looks down at that body, Renard cannot say he feels glad. But he feels not meek or unjustified either. In the sober silence, he kneels, retrieves the Iron King’s crown, and snorts. Kingship is not a position in any way suited to him. He rifles further through the body and retrieves the key to the tower where the Iron King’s family has been kept, deciding to return them to the throne.

With that decided, Renard stands. The sword in his hand beams with murderous delight. Like a tiger taught the taste of human flesh, this blade now knows what delicacies are blood and life, cheering greedily for more, more, more! Admire my art, how I am peerless!

Cringing, Renard sheaths the sword deep in its scabbard. The air of mad, orgasmic bloodlust still uncomfortably wafts around his hip, even as he shoves everything out of his mind to venture up to the dungeons.

The old king and queen are frail — the one who answers the door is their daughter, the Iron King’s eldest sister. Having had very few visitors outside the Iron King during this incarceration, she is intimidated to see Renard. Not recognising him, she fears him an executioner, or agent for some rival family.

Renard presents her the crown, exhaustedly.

“May we call this the end, of this mess."