A Sweet Touch For A Hard Man

Renard has never actually bedded a woman before.

In fact he’s never even kissed a woman, except for his mother, and girls in his village as jokes. So what on earth is it like? Will it be as incredible as everyone says? Bubbles rise light in his chest as he covers his mouth and reddening cheeks.

Kingslayer, now a mature and proud beast, effuses its dark judgemental aura. The coldness of it, as always, inspires in Renard fear and doubt about what he is doing. He unhooks Kingslayer’s scabbard from his hip, hand trembling around it, but hesitates to set the blade down. Similar to that night before the Iron King pronounced war on the Pilamines, when he was speaking on the parapets to Pleione, if he allows this maiden into his head, it may change everything about him. It’s terrifying.

But, on that night, Pleione had been correct and helpful. Renard swallows the lump in his throat, lets out a breath, and gently lays Kingslayer aside the bedstand. He kneels down to it.

“Now, old chum," says Renard, “is it not fair for the horse that climbs many hills to drink?"

Kingslayer does not respond, regarding Renard’s love affairs with disinterest.

“Good lad…" he mutters, as a knock comes at the door.

Renard hurries to his feet and opens the door. The smiling serving woman slips into the room, and once the door is closed, lays her head on Renard’s chest as if listening to his heart. The intimacy of the gesture disarms him — unsure what to say, he blubbers, and she twirls away with those deep, playful eyes. She turns her silhouette into profile, begins slowly loosening her frock, and asks Renard for his tastes.

Though the cold and rational part of him would throw the woman out, that part dissolves at the sight of her unveiled skin, and her elegant swan-arms poised over her round chest with artful, teasing modesty. Renard, tongue-tied, jolts with the realisation he should probably undress as well, and scrambles to do so. She helps, sensing his inexperience, but not being judgemental or in any way scornful. She is kind, a little like Pleione.

She gently guides him onto the bed.

It is incredible.

She is incredible, an incredible person. The warmth and light that her earnest, sensitive, gentle, and dutiful ministrations have drawn out of Renard’s soul are as vital as water drawn from a well, loosening some current that for a long time has been still. Renard lies beside her in the warm, fuzzy afterglow, and gazes up at her beautiful form as she quietly counts the money, when a wave of sadness sweeps over him.

He sits up. “What is your name?"

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and smiles. “Isobel."

For such an incredible woman to be living this contemptible lifestyle — surely something has gone wrong. Unfortunate circumstances and judgemental glances must have ground her into the dirt, until little was left for her but the soiled coin from this job. Someone who could make Renard feel such joy and comfort does not deserve what Isobel has. They deserve much more. An estate. A castle!

An image coheres swiftly in Renard’s mind, of this woman swathed in golden silks and reclined in a marble parlour. Though Renard himself rejected it, his knighthood does grant him minor nobility, and through his noble connections he—

Renard grabs her hands. “—Isobel."

She eyes him carefully, alarmed, but not afraid. She gently curls in her fingers and eases his arms down — his grip is firm, but not aggressive. She rubs her thumb over his palm and notes, he has such powerful hands…

Renard squeezes to try and steady his train of thought. Hurriedly retrieving Kingslayer from the bedstand, he asks if Isobel knows who he is.

She does, but she understands discretion. …Though, he wasn’t what she expected.

It’s a harmless comment, but it still worries Renard.

They say you’re cold, she tosses her neck and smiles. But, it’s just the armour.

Renard is shaken once again, his insides quivering like a plucked string. Isobel’s observations feel dangerous, in an odd and subtle way he can’t define, that the cold part of him again advises he should throw her out ruthlessly. But the rest of him, the meek part of him, the soft and scared village boy part of him, is simply fearful and wanting of Isobel to think well of him, and is left somewhat anxious by the things she is not saying, which lace the space between her words profusely.

Though he cannot tell what those unspoken sentiments are — lingering in her eyes and her smile — his gut surges with desire to answer to them.

Renard clears his throat to steady himself and stands with a broad flourish. “Ho!" he announces, allowing ostentatious bravado to propel him forward. “How in such a bordello may a little bell ch—" he chokes, abruptly feeling stupid. “—chime, yet upon a polished step… are you kept well, here in this place?"

She smooths down a lock of her hair. She is kept, she answers vaguely — her unspoken words feel to say that her life is too modest and frugal, that at home she must wear rags and strain over a washboard like a common peasant, with no man, sibling, or parent to offer her any way out, but only the tavern-master who has allowed her this work.

Reclaiming some boldness, Renard propounds that this backwater hamlet is limiting her and her life could be much more fruitful than this. Suffer he a lily be planted among the thistle?

Isobel shrugs and insists that her straits truly aren’t so bad — but again the unspoken words tell Renard she is hesitant to take or reject whatever change he will offer, though she is curious to know.

Nay, a lily be made for the garden, and you as much would stand in chiffon as any powdered woman of Sebilles. Having found his groove, Renard continues, laughing: The lily of Sebilles!

Oh, I could not… Isobel sweeps her hair behind her ear. If I may look like a flower, but my heart is still that of a girl…

Something of what Renard said has disappointed her. Shaken out of his bravado, and nervous again that he may be losing her, he wets his tongue and frantically looks for something to win her back over and prove that his intentions are good. He scoops a stack of coins out of his bags and presents it to her.

Money? She questions, and the unspoken words are clear: are you trying to buy all my dignity?

Renard upends his entire coinpurse, kneels at her feet, kisses her hands, and sets his forehead against her knuckles.

Isobel, considering this, strokes his head while counting the money. She expresses that this is a lot of coin, but not enough to buy her.

But am I not Renard Cox! Renard announces with a flourish, sweeping Kingslayer in a playful slash against an invisible ghoul. Someone of his prestige surely can earn more — and those earnings, he vows, would all go straight to Isobel.

Well, where would you keep me tonight? She asks.

Renard stammers, having not considered this. Indeed, being that Renard does not have a palace at the ready, where is a place she can go to feel valued and pampered? Tongue-tied, he lapses into silence.

Isobel laughs, gestures him back onto the bed beside her, and hugs and kisses him.

One day you’ll get me to Sebilles, she whispers, and I’ll pine for you every day.

She rubs circles into his shoulder and again lays her chin on him affectionately as she scoops up the coins. She rises from the bed, dresses herself smoothly, and gives him one final comment before leaving the room:

Speak with me in the morning.

The image of her smiling sweetly in the doorway lingers in Renard’s mind, making it hard to find sleep.

He did it! Yes? That is what she means?, he breathes exhilarated and confused. A mute voice grumbles in the back of his head with the warning, again, that this woman is not worth the time and he should throw her out. Excitement drowns that voice utterly. Oh, if he could throw off the covers and rush straight to her home now… before she might leave, or steal the money… and yet again, close this door…

Renard pulls the covers over him higher. No, no, he tells himself. She would not do that. The idea settles in his mind with the same certainty as his sureness that Isen’s soul would still be in the bog, and, soon calmed, he gets to sleep.

Renard wakes and exits the tavern. The atmosphere of the town outside is so different than it was yesterday, it is as if he entered the tavern in one dimension, and exited it into another. The sky shines brighter and bluer as if the season shifted from autumn to summer overnight, and all the townspeople going about their business gallop about gaily like children rather than skulk and eye those outside their cliques. Even the squeaking of passing wagons sounds cheerful, teasing complaints about the weights of their loads, but in truth proud to be carrying them.

Of course, in truth, none of these changed since yesterday. The only thing that changed is Renard, and by that change, the world looks much brighter.

To any one of these people, he could prance over and brag: I am Renard Cox! A peerless slayer of monsters, who has brought nothing but good to the world, and I will protect each of you to the last! All of you men, whatever good you need — by my tireless ethic, you can depend on me!

In fact the desire to brag exactly this is so great, rising bubbly in his chest like an explosive buoy, that he must tamp it down furiously to stop himself from grabbing pedestrians off the street and yelling his glee in their faces.

Restraining himself, he marches to Isobel’s home. It is a small thing, moreso a hovel than any of the houses back in Renard’s hometown, with nobody living but Isobel, who opens the door.

With daylight casting out the night’s air of passion and mystery, and the understanding settled that their interest is transactional, now is the time to define the terms of that transaction. Of course, Renard could not wish to admit this publicly, but there is purpose to Isobel that, while not quite cold, is calculated enough that it makes Renard himself shiver.

The purpose is this: if he can tell himself he is devoting his actions and efforts to Isobel, it gives him something to live for. It divorces him from a quest, necessarily, of trying to die. Because he has something to live for, he can embrace a more positive attitude towards the world and towards others, since, however outsiders may see him, he knows what end his blade serves: the realisation of that woman in the golden silk.

All Isobel must do is let herself be this muse.

And Isobel, quite quickly, says ‘yes’.