Bounding, The Consequence

The next morning, Renard takes Kingslayer and rides out of Sebilles. His destination is the craggy hills that stand at the outskirts of the city’s territory, also called the buffalo trails. These hills lead to valleys and plains where the creatures can often be found, as well as being a common hiking spot. The downtick in buffalo numbers has cut traffic to these hills, but they are still relatively well-visited by able-bodied and adventurous people.

Such, they are the perfect place for Renard to throw away Kingslayer.

He hitches his horse at the base of the hill and hikes several hours up the trail. Near the peak, he pauses to behold the winding trail of hills he has just climbed, and distant Sebilles below, and decides this is the spot. Renard unsheaths Kingslayer and drives it blade-first into the dirt, until it stands as stable as a headstone.

Renard steps back to admire the sword. Its grave, condescending vigil over Sebilles feels profoundly correct, and Renard untenses with a laugh.

Whoever comes next upon this blade will be its rightful owner. There’s no logic behind this thought, but it holds to Renard with absolute certainty. Even if it be an urchin or a thief, confused by the weight of the thing or eager to sell it, fate will deliver the blade through such people and artifices to its ultimate and proper owner. Now that it’s not in Renard’s hands, it can finally live.

Which makes this a wonderful thing he has done. He smiles gleefully as he turns to the panorama of the valley and city below, exhaling a huff of the crisp mountain air. It’s not Renard’s responsibility anymore. The blade can feast, and Renard is free!

Free! From the toe to the tip of this valley, he may embark and begin anew! A knight is not a knight if he has no sword, and indeed without one, Renard must not be a knight. Perhaps he shall be a carpenter in a rural town, or a fisherman on a wee boat, or a field researcher in Palidan sciences. Perhaps he will build new wells or prospect gold from rivers… perhaps he shall seek out the Tekse…

Renard sobers minutely on that last thought, fear and curiosity prickling at him equally. But he shakes his head and refocuses. Infinite potential is open to him as he grins and marches down the hill.

Abrupt nausea strikes him as he turns a bend on the trail. He gasps, sweat streaming down his forehead and hands trembling violently. Go back! His gut shouts, as urgently as if he had left his firstborn in a burning building. Go back! Go back! Renard stumbles, trying to obey the command, but is too disoriented to distinguish uphill from downhill. Dizzy, with the world spinning around him, he only stumbles further into panicked confusion and nausea — and with as little warning as this fit began, falls to the ground like a discarded puppet, unconscious.

Light, voices, and motion batter Renard. He gasps awake, blinking under the lofty hillside sun, his mouth dry as cotton. Men are shouting, calling. Kingslayer is before him. Renard grabs it and sheaths it smoothly, then shoves himself out of the hoisting hold onto his own feet.

He is still on the arid hillside. The sun hangs lower east than he remembers. Men crowd around, all dressed in the Queen’s colours. They are fussing about him with alarm, announcing to their fellows that Renard is awake, or urging him with reassurances that all will be well, they will get him out of here…

“Fuss elsewhere!" Renard snaps, and storms down the hill. He stumbles on the trail’s loose stones, uncoordinated, panting, lightheaded, dizzy… he massages his forehead, and pauses to sip from his canteen.

The leader of the group comes down and wraps his arm around Renard’s shoulders. Renard scowls, pops his canteen’s cap back on. The leader addresses him familiarly: “Sir Renard…"

Renard slides his glare away from the man and smacks his lips.

Heedless, the leader-man informs that they are a group of trackers the Queen sent to scout for buffalo. They have presently aborted their mission because they discovered Renard up here, unconscious. Their priority now is to get him down the mountain and take him to the castle in Sebilles to see a doctor, and from there figure out what on earth happened.

The leader-man gives Renard a smile and rubs his shoulder.

Renard heaves himself out of his grip and proceeds his march down the hill. He announces, he does not need anyone’s babysitting to get himself down. He is well and able to…

Breathless, he leans on a tree. It only now strikes him how exhausted he is — how every muscle aches, how momentous every step feels. His skin is burnt red and pocked with sores, as though he has laid out on the hillside for several days straight, to cook under the sun while the sandflies and mosquitoes had a banquet. In fact, that may be exactly what happened.

Pushing himself onward, Renard determines he can still get himself down the hill. But he cannot do so while outpacing the Queen’s men, whose leader jogs down and urges that if Renard had a medical issue, they can’t just leave him alone. Several members of their group break away to escort him down, his stubbornness be damned, and by early evening they all reach the bottom uneventfully.

Renard’s horse is absent — the Queen’s men have already taken it to the royal stables to recuperate, as the creature was in a poor state. Only now realising that he cannot simply hop on his steed and go home, Renard finally resigns to let the Queen’s men take him for a check-up.

He drifts in and out of choppy naps on the wagon, still not feeling rested at all by the time they arrive, and rather only sick at the sight of the castle. Renard swallows his frustration and discomfort, asking if he can go home after this physical. Many interested faces peer out of the rooms that he and his escort pass. The escort assures him yes, which gets him begrudgingly into the physician’s room.

His physicals are fine. Water, ointments, and bedrest should get him over his present condition. Cross-referencing when Renard left to climb the hill with the day that the Queen’s men found him, he indeed was unconscious for two days, and is suffering from dehydration and exposure. Though he will recover easily, truthfully he is extremely lucky that he was discovered when he was and came to when he did. Another day, and the damage might have been permanent — or worse.

Great, Renard grumbles, ready to go home.

…But that doesn’t explain why he fainted in the first place. What was he doing when it happened, does he remember anything odd?

Odd! Odd is this healer’s inquisition, Renard snaps, rising from his seat on the bed. He shoves the physician aside. If he is well enough that home treatments will mend him, then very well, he shall tend to himself. But before he can make it halfway to the door, the physician’s stern, reproachful gaze wrestles him back to the bed. Plainly, he is not done here.

Renard, sighing through grit teeth, seats himself and looks aside.

The physician nods to dismiss the escort that brought Renard on with a task, then refocuses on Renard. He kneels to meet Renard’s eye level, assuring that he is only asking these questions out of a concern for Renard’s health.

Renard nods, reluctant but accepting.

The physician continues. Renard should not be afraid or embarrassed of whatever condition caused him to faint — many respected individuals throughout history suffered from quite serious conditions in their lifetime, largely ones that tended not to be obvious. If it turns out Renard has a weak flow of blood, or a predisposition towards seizures, these things can be managed such that nobody will ever know.

It is no such malarkey, Renard grumbles, I already know.

The physician stands up, brows raising curiously. The escort returns, knocking on the door, with a small cup in his hand. The physician nods him over to Renard. He offers Renard the cup of water, Renard’s face reflected in the rippling surface.

Renard snaps, shoots to his feet, knocks the cup messily to the ground. He has used up what water he had in his canteen over his hike down the mountain — now these physicians, well-intentioned as they are, will force him to take their vile well-begot offerings. Renard screams that the Queen’s men should have just left him to die, that the sun should have thirsted him quicker, that fanged beasts should have supped upon him, that he ought have just died on that hill for there is no purpose in him staying alive! It is done. He is done! If he will have to thirst himself to convey the seriousness of this message, then very well, he will! That horrible blood-water disgusts him too much for it to ever pass his lips anyway!

All of you, curse all of you! Renard spits, shoving the escort aside, slamming his fist on the physician’s desk, throwing his papers at his face and his trinkets at the walls. The physician and escort scurry out of the room, knowing they cannot overpower Renard, and not wanting to be caught in his tantrum.

Renard slumps back onto the bed, face in his palm, having worked out the worst of that outburst. The room is a mess, but nothing too important is broken, and the things that are can be replaced without great drama. He would like to enjoy the calm of being alone at this moment, but without any distractions, the aura of Kingslayer on his hip seething for blood dominates the little room. Renard clenches his teeth, tears prickling at his eyes, barely able to keep himself from screaming.

He draws the blade with its scabbard off his hip onto his lap. First he envisions to throw it away, then to beat it against the stone walls as if to harm it, then to bash his own head against the walls, then, with an oddly serene shift like a tide changing its current, to simply plunge the blade through his own neck and have this whole thing be over.

The prospect is strangely soothing. Renard leans back against the wall, exhaling. Though an awareness clenches in his gut that he probably will not follow through right now, fantasies do cohere of how he might hold the point of the blade to his throat, finish his stupid life on the highest note it could ever reach, and by that how sincere would be his apology towards Isen, how loyal would be Renard’s devotion to the Iron King, how free would be Kingslayer to find a proper master, how much will Renard not have to think about doing right or wrong or being trapped or hurt anymore…

It really is tempting.

A knock comes at the door. Renard recognises the rhythm, but is still surprised to see Pleione, peeking out from behind the doorway. He tenses, fearful she might somehow know exactly what he had been thinking.

Her air as she strides in is strained with grim concern, but not overwhelmed or alarmed in the way of knowing an acquaintance, or perhaps friend, was considering suicide. Renard untenses a slight and stares down at the blade, laid flat across his lap. She follows his gaze and comprehends what has happened, basically, with Renard. Some abnormality has arisen through Kingslayer.

Rather than clinically address the specifics of that abnormality right now, she carefully urges that the medics sent for her because Renard was not in a good state.

Renard wishes he could grin and brush off this observation with cheery bravado, but the strength for that just isn’t there. His smile cracks into a wince, into sobs, as he pinches his brow to hide his reddened face. At the very least, if he had to cry in front of someone, he’s glad that it’s Pleione. If she is still willing to even look at him, much less treat him as anything more than scum, after all she has already seen, then she will probably be gentle and sympathise.

And she does. She swoops over to hold his hand and lays her chin on his shoulder in a hug, patting his back. Though odd, she really is a rather beautiful woman, and to know she is offering her support does ease Renard's chest.

Seeing that he is calmed, Pleione withdraws with a reassuring smile. Renard smiles back, but a strange anxiety has lodged in his gut and constricted the pit of his throat. A possibility is cohering in his mind, that maybe…

Pleione’s attention has already shifted to Kingslayer. She carefully unsheaths the blade, and asks Renard what happened on the hill.

Renard swallows his sentiments and confesses that he tried to throw Kingslayer away, and fainted after he left it behind.

Pleione considers this. With Renard’s permission, she brings Kingslayer across the room. Renard can feel an invisible string between himself and the sword starting to strain; like a taut muscle, the link is only tangible when stressed in this manner. It is not a great distance, indeed only a handful of steps, but already his body is warning him not to distance himself from the sword.

Unable to feel or observe the sensation herself, Pleione takes another step out. Renard’s heart quickens, gut panic rises. Stop, he commands.

She eyes him askance, but does not press further to see him actually faint, taking his obvious panic as its own confirmation that something abnormal is happening. She closes the gap to relieve Renard and after a moment of consideration, returns Kingslayer. He scoops up the thing so desperately you would think it was his only possession. Pleione steadily works out what has happened.

Basically, Renard cannot be physically distanced from Kingslayer, or else he will pass out until he is returned to its proximity again. On top of that, the ‘safe range’ before he does pass out is small — even forgetting the sword a room over while doing house chores would be enough to topple him, and even potentially kill him, if nobody came upon him and returned Kingslayer before fatal dehydration set in.

Truthfully this is not unexpected news for Renard. It is frightening news, and news he has been avoiding, but also something he had subconsciously understood while forcing himself not to think of it. Because it’s true, he has persistently been having this instinct to always keep Kingslayer on him. To leave it behind on a bench or really anywhere outside of immediate arm’s reach feels extremely discomforting, in the same way that having your internal organs dangling out of your mouth would be extremely discomforting.

What Pleione can supply, though, is the ‘why’. She deduces that, what has likely happened is, the stress of enchanting Kingslayer did have an effect on Renard’s soul after all. Basically, it seems he has bound at least a fragment of his own soul to Kingslayer — and the reason for his fainting would be, because he is quite literally disconnecting himself from an essential portion of his soul when he strays from Kingslayer.

But, says Pleione, it doesn’t seem that fragment has been corrupted. In all respects, Renard is fine, and he’s functioning perfectly… provided he stays within reach of Kingslayer.

Though it is more dangerous a condition to have than not have, it’s not something that needs to be treated, and given how novel of a condition it is, any attempts to treat it likely would make it worse. So is Pleione’s judgement on what to do about this: nothing.

Renard quietly sets Kingslayer back on his hip, already half-resigned to this outcome, and so able to accept it smoothly. The dreadful, cold weight of inevitability falls into his chest once again, as many bright doors of where he may go with his life slam themselves shut, leaving only a narrow handful of terrifying, and truly quite dark and miserable, courses still open.

Pleione gives a subtle frown and offers him a drink from her canteen. She assures that she is also unnerved by Lacren’s wellwater and has been making her own supply from her water-plants, so it’s okay to drink. Renard snorts airily but accepts the offering, grateful for it.

This is something you do with your eastern augury, Renard notes.

Yes, Pleione confirms.

Renard wipes his chin and returns the canteen, mind drifting. Why have the practises and beliefs of her homeland not spread further, when they are demonstrably real and strong…

Pleione sits down, curious herself to that question. Her gaze lowers as she considers it. Perhaps the tangible nature of the miracles she can perform, in itself, erodes an outsider’s faith in the principle behind the miracles; that the esteem is given to the effect, not the lessons, the theory, or the cause. She is not really anyone special, outside of knowing how to let herself open to appropriate flows of esteem — she suspects many who hear these words become curious, as to how they too might direct these flows, but on their own terms, rather than those of the Demiurge.

She stares down at her arms, covered in those deep, open scars. It abruptly occurs to Renard that she, too, might have hemmed herself in to a very strict course, and may have suffered quite greatly to get there. As she smiles to herself, brushes her hair over her shoulder, and moves to stand up, Renard without thinking reaches out and calls to her: Pleione…

She jerks back to him with surprise, taken off-guard by his anxious, but pleading, and hopeful tone.

Her gaze slowly averts as she shakes her head. Gently as she can, she urges that he should at least wait for that party, and meet some Lacrenese noblewomen, first.

It’s a gentle enough rejection that Renard can smoothly release that thread of hope and let it turn to smoke. Still, in that formless way, the essence of it still lingers in the air.

Pleione spares an apologetic glance as she reaches the door. She sighs pertly and smiles a silly, humorous smile to dispel the room’s awkward tension. She advises that she’ll reserve some of her personal water for him, in case he finds himself wanting it, since producing some extra isn’t a problem for her, and finally, she urges he look after himself and get himself home.

After pushing his way through the doctors, Renard indeed returns home.

He feels beyond conflicted. On one hand, he wants to bawl, on another, he wants to hurt Pleione. What wicked nerve has she, to offer such concerned words while wounding him with her rejection? But on the third hand he just has to sigh, and swallow those first two feelings as unproductive, and maybe not moves he needs to make.

Renard lays in bed, arm swept over his forehead, considering. Embarrassing as it is to say, Renard is unsure how to handle women. And moreover, despite hoping for her to accept and love him, and comfort him through this dark moment, and give him something outside combat and chivalry to live for, he isn’t sure he even really loves Pleione.

Of course, he likes her. Her insights and abilities as a shaman are extremely intriguing to Renard, and feel to hold some power and truth that, now that he has felt them, he wouldn’t wish to turn away from. More personally, she has been basically kind and extremely gentle, and accepting of Renard even in his unsightly moments. She does feel to have a basic concern for him that he can consistently rely upon when he needs it. Her looks, though queer, are not wholly unattractive, either.

But it’s only when thinking about how she looked at those scars, after speaking as she spoke, that he finds himself holding any curiosity about her. If his default regard of her is dismissive, then maybe he is just desperate, and not really invested.

But to say he’s uninvested makes him shift uncomfortably, because it’s wrong. He does care about Pleione, it’s just… well, he doesn’t know. Just, not like that. Unless it could be.

Still, she was probably right to advise he try other women first. In fact it strikes him as outrageously sensible. People probably would mock him for courting a foreigner, and he questions how well Pleione could blend into Lacrenese culture, too. But he also wants to shrink away and sob at the prospect of putting himself before noblewomen, who would, or should, know immediately that he was a sham, that would never match up to a proper aristocrat.

Though, he wonders if Pleione herself might help by playing wingman. More than wonders — a weird conviction tells him that she would really enjoy it. He is not sure of the social life she has outside her lab, but his impression has been she does not have many friends. Perhaps having a reason to get out and scout new things would be fun for her? At the very least, they would have something to talk about.

Renard smiles.

Perhaps that is what he should think about, for now.