Mirror of The Pit

The instant Renard returns to his house, he packs up supplies to leave.

It is night. The sun has set. Renard snaps his horse awake, loads her with luggage, and bridles her up to ride.

Renard had fled to an isolated balcony when he heard Orpheus’ name called, and cowered there for minutes, sweating as if it were the end of the earth. He can’t explain why the prospect of Orpheus being a knightly tutor was and is so frightening — but it is absolute truth that Renard’s guts were about to drop out his rear at that moment, and probably actually would have, if anybody had found him in his hiding spot, as he feared they would.

Even then, the impulse to run back to the party was immense, to explain… he doesn’t know what. That he isn’t a horrible person, even though Orpheus is a proper knight, and Orpheus hates him, so logically Renard is horrible.

In the end, though, nobody found him, and he got home without interruptions.

He double-checks his canisters of water, stashes his map in his sabretache, and mounts his horse. With a steadying nod, and a crack of the reins, he dashes out into the night.

His destination is Nix. Of course.

And though he is scared — still thinking of Orpheus — it’s not that he’s running away. Rather, similarly to how he had committed himself to murdering an innocent traveller so many years ago, or to dredging up Isen’s soul for witchbane, Renard’s heart has already committed itself to going to Nix, by the words he spoke at that party and the oaths he has made to himself, to the Queen, and to Pleione. It’s just an imperative, beyond any argument. He must go to Nix and slay Arsene. It is really as simple as that.

And apart from that fear he is anxious, nervous. He well knows there are people greater than him who would have had the same idea before. But he must not think of them, or of the implications of their present lack of success, or of anything — because he must go to Nix and slay Arsene. There is nothing else here to consider.

Lacren does not border Nix. There are over eight countries Renard must pass through before he will reach his destination, none of which would be happy about a Lacrenese knight traipsing around unannounced in their borders. But that does not matter to Renard.

He reaches the outer border of Lacren. A roadside inn, with lanterns lit, stands as a final landmark of home. A woman, having heard Renard’s horse, exits the inn and gazes to him softly.

Renard grits his teeth and cracks the reins, pressing his horse on. And so becomes his momentum and tenor in this journey — charging across borders heedlessly, through less-travelled margins that are more loosely patrolled, never stopping to fraternise with anyone else, sleeping on the rough or in isolated travellers’ cabins. Though a great adventure in itself, still he can only think, without stopping to immerse himself in much of anything: I must slay Arsene.

Several weeks pass like this. Soon he enters the final kingdom, the one that borders Nix: Verdanheim.

This nation is tiny and dark. A tangible air of distortion pervades the hamlet he enters, and the trees in the distant forest, and even the sun in the sky. The light feels pale and weak, withered like a man on his deathbed. Though Renard knows he entered in daytime, the sun chokes and flickers, smothered, sending the region into a bizarre half-night.

Renard shakes off his mystification and discomfort with this strangeness, charging his horse onward again. Arsene, Arsene, Arsene.

And so he reaches his destination.

Renard falls silent as he takes in the sight before him.

He stands on the edge of a cliff, which descends into — nothing. All that expands from this spot, so absolute and final as to be the end of the world, is a cold, dark, dense, nothing.

This utter blackness stretches like an ocean into infinity. The sight of it wracks Renard with a sense of total insignificance, and all he can do, as he disbelievingly hops off his horse, and stares into the dark, his breaths growing more ragged and rapid, tears heating his eyes, is scream.

He collapses onto his knees, screaming, wailing, sobbing in denial of the thick void in front of him. Just jump in! Just jump in with your can-do gung-ho and have every light you’ve ever loved in this world leave you. The aura that arises from this pit echoes that of the Iron King, though it is a million times more powerful, visceral, primordial. While as flat and calm as a still lake, the emptiness roils with deep cold hatred, which would not just see Renard killed — but debased, dismantled, humiliated, sapped of all his values, and destroyed to his root. It is cruelty beyond cruelty. It is a heated, passionate war against everything bright inside him, that will not even concede that such things are good — but rather that they are stupid, disgusting, pointless, fake, contemptible, bad, gross, and if Renard opens himself to this force, it will infiltrate and illustrate exactly why it thinks this.

For how definitely Renard knows this all is true, it is not this arcane animosity, but the simplicity of the sight of the bottomless hole that breaks him. Mindlessly, he screams — a scream of such absolute pain, one he has kept inside since slaying the Iron King, since becoming his servant, since following him into the woods, since marching into the valley, since throwing that sheep in that tree, since maybe even before then.

WHY!

WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN!

Why is here HERE but to FUCK UP and LOSE! WHY CAN’T ANYTHING HE EVER WANTS JUST BE RIGHT!? WHY ARE ALL HIS CHOICES AND CONVICTIONS JUST WRONG? WHY IS HE JUST ALLOWED NOTHING THAT’S GOOD?! BY THE ANCESTORS’ GRACE, WHAT DID HE DO!?

If he could, he would FIX IT! He would be SORRY! Even if he isn’t rewarded for it, it’s what he’d DO. That’s why he killed the Iron King, why he listened to Pleione, why he gave back his father his money! Because he knows he’s not he best at it, but he’s trying to do what is RIGHT. He doesn’t want to be bad. It’s not even in him. It’s not him.

So why can’t he be allowed comfortable joys? Why can’t he date Pleione? Why can’t he be a proud son? Why couldn’t he care for his mother? Why couldn’t he support Isen as his compliment? Why is even the Iron King gone? Why is there nobody left who he can just do right by, love, and be loved by in peace?

Or is he just stupid and shallow, a wretch with no real convictions, who can’t help but mess things up. Is he thinking too selfishly. Is he too thoughtless. Why is this part of him so deep and consistent? Are the sins he’s accumulated still just too great.

Renard furiously raises Kingslayer over the pit as if to stab the darkness. But his grip on the blade trembles as he knows the action is pointless. Frozen in place, his thoughts shift smoothly, and calmly, into instead, dropping the blade.

It’s yet a comforting prospect, just letting go.

But the sword’s aura breathes as it ever does, joyfully heedless to Renard’s intentions: kill! Kill! Kill! Faces from Pilamine follow. You don’t deserve to be free. You’ve left us with nothing.

In the end, Renard slumps back onto the grass, crying, the sword discarded on the ground beside him.

He doesn’t want to go back to the Queen and use this sword to kill people. He doesn’t want to be respected for this. He doesn’t want to put on a charade for some high-bred woman. He doesn’t even want to be an aristocrat. But that’s all he can do, isn’t it?

So if it’s all he can do, maybe it will be fine. Has to be fine. If he just embraces it. If every door but one will close, then what’s the good in consigning that last door as awful when he’s barely dipped his toes into it. What if he really tries to make the best of this opportunity where he has wound up? Would it be stupid to throw that away?

And though these thoughts encourage him enough to stand and sheathe Kingslayer, all that remains under this last veneer of hope as he takes his horse’s reins, and turns away from the blackness of Nix, is overwhelming, insurmountable, shame.

Renard returns to the town, trudging, no longer in a rush. Rather, he would like to prolong his return to Sebilles, where he reasonably can, if that would be possible. But even that reluctance speaks to a kind of failure…

Miserable and frustrated, he enters a tavern and takes a chair. The wellwater here in Verdanheim is not tainted, so anything to drink here should be safe. Even so, he finds himself less with the appetite to down his liqour, than to upturn it over his head, beat the tankard over his skull, and sulk while flopped over a table. He needs some idiot to punch, a heretic to beat… though no, he does not really mean that.

Locals give him odd glances and whisper amongst themselves. Renard returns them a stink-eye. What? Lacrenese knight or not, can’t a man peacefully stew in his misery. Soon too aggravated to simply dismiss it, Renard thumps his fist on the table and barks for the tavernkeep to do something about the other guests, then snaps at them himself. Though not escalated enough to get to blows yet, the temptation to let go, be furious, and smash something is immense.

Two men in red uniforms then enter the tavern. Sensing the air of authority about them, Renard warily reins himself down and returns himself to his seat. Indeed, these are members of local law enforcement, and once the tension in the room dissipates, the younger of the pair playfully turns to Renard with a too-welcoming smile.

Renard harrumphs a cynical laugh, aware he is about to be inquisited.

Indeed, the young guard jokes the confrontation away and tells Renard he’s caused a bit of a stir. Not a big deal, mind, but it’s odd here in Verdanheim to see any travellers. We’re not all a popular destination, with the big hole in the ground. It would probably calm everyone’s nerves to know what exactly Renard is here for.

Renard chews his lip, snorts, and snidely answers that he’s here to throw a dance party.

The guard’s smile stiffens momentarily and his companion fingers the sheathed sabre on his hip. With that threat established, the young guard fluently forgives the gaffe and assures Renard that it’s doubly strange to see someone as well-equipped and armed as him gallivanting around; he looks like a proper knight from some mysteriously unfamiliar province. He can understand Verdanheim’s trepidation here, yes?

Uncomfortable with the way this questioning is going, Renard reaches for Kingslayer — slowly unsheaths it, and lays it on the table to show himself as unarmed. Oh, good boy, the younger guard murmurs to himself.

Something weird about that sword, the older guard grumbles. The younger guard nods.

“Lacren," Renard answers, “is where I hail. But I am merely a mercenary. I am not a knight," he spits the word.

The younger guard quirks his brow. The elder fills in the gaps: Lacren is very distant — to be here, as a mercenary, means their stranger is strong, but has questionable circumstances… else, he’s here on business…

The guard asks moreso to himself than Renard — Lacren, isn’t that a hexant kingdom?

Renard again chews his lip, reluctant to answer.

“Are you Renard Cox?" the young guard says with surprise.

“No," Renard quickly answers, panic spearing through his chest. Guests of the tavern shuffle quietly out the door, sensing this is not a safe conversation to overhear.

“He’s Renard Cox," the guard confirms incredulously. Renard gulps, and seeing his discomfort, the guard quickly raises his palms and shakes his head. No, no, he’s not here to hassle Renard about it, it’s just surprising to run into him. He should know that rumours about him stretch all the way here to Verdanheim — that he is a very skilled, and very loyal, servant of a relatively diplomatic ghoul-king. Well, that clears some things up, but also opens a bunch more questions. Is he here as a dignitary, or something?

Though taken aback by the agreeable posture of Verdanheim’s guards towards servants of ghouls, Renard can only be resigned and bitter when he informs them the Iron King is dead.

This surprises the guards, but the elder stoically notes that Renard must’ve got run out of Lacren. The younger nods, quickly putting these pieces together. The elder further comments that they should take him to see lord Verdan.

“—Yes, he will want to see him," the younger agrees.

Renard stands and sheaths Kingslayer, confused where they’re going with this. I had no plans for a meeting with your lord, he challenges.

“You got a hex," the older says, nodding at Kingslayer. “Verdan knows ‘bout hexes."

Renard sets his hand on Kingslayer’s scabbard protectively. Even if these guards have figured out something about Renard’s circumstances, his affair with this sword is not really their business. Rather, the certainty with which they are goading him to follow, and see this Lord Verdan, is unsettling. Instinct tells Renard he is better off departing, now. …But he can’t erase his uncertainty, in that, if this Verdan can possibly help, then maybe…

The younger guard steps in and adds that Verdan is likely to have a job opening.

My soul is not for sale, Renard retorts, and shoulders for the door.

The younger guard intercepts him quickly. Wait wait wait, he says. He doesn’t know what’s led Renard here to Verdanheim, and frankly would rather not release him until his motives here were explicitly clear, but if he’s not here as a scout or envoy, or to petition Verdan, then the guard figures his goal had something to do with Nix. Glancing over the emptied tavern, and lowering his voice, the guard continues, You can’t think we’ve been here all this time and never been curious about it?

Renard purses his lips. You have been there, in that hole?

The guard shrugs and jerks his head to convey that he can’t divulge that information. But he does think Renard and Verdan may be able to help each other, and that for Renard to leave without seeing him would be a massively wasted opportunity.

For myself, or for your lord? Renard thinks bitterly, but cannot argue. Whatever Verdanheim has been doing with Nix, he’ll admit, he does want to know.

Though wary and reluctant, he follows the guards to see Lord Verdan.