Confronting Arsene

Renard’s heart sheaths itself and his mouth flattens.

He fetches Kingslayer off the grass. More than ever before, his soul kicks with revulsion at even touching the thing. The sanctity of this place underscores what an abomination this black, night-gowned claw of murder is for even existing, and suddenly Renard understands Anelle’s aversion to even looking at it. It is deeply foul and unnatural. But a thing even more unnatural and even more foul has, unfortunately, made Kingslayer a necessity.

It is not yet hostile, but it is not happy. So Renard judges of their quarry from their position across the lake. Here on the riverbank, calm, holy air still eases peace for Renard, but it is the tense peace of a lull on the battlefield, to be broken the very instant either party steps forth.

Renard’s gaze scans over the lake. There must be some means of passage, even if he must fashion a raft...

The tree in the cottage garden then rustles in a breeze. A crimson flower sheds from its boughs.

Three sets of eyes all hold a breath.

The flower lands upon the lake, and drifts on the current...

Towards Renard and Fidel…

It will turn away towards a river, Renard insists to himself, the current so sweeps it. Do not hope too high.

But it does not turn away, and breaches the sweep of the current, to trundle on still towards them.

Me? Will it be me? Renard’s heart then thrums with a fire that casts golden sparks. Could it be me?

But it is not him. The flower anchors in a ditch of mud between Fidel’s feet. Just as much as his own heart falls when Fidel bends to retrieve the wish, Renard glimpses how the serpent, too, deflates with resignation.

Even though it’s a sensible thing to be disappointed about, any commonality with the snake is a bitter one.

“Fidel," Renard says.

“—Sire, I’m not sure how to say this," Fidel says. The flower cupped in his hands radiates a sunlike glow of warmth and power, but lays in his palms as delicate and patient as a young chick. “I’m… not sure how to use it."

“—Then hold on to it, boy."

Fidel nods, and cups his hand like a lid. As though it is small, and he must keep it safe.

Renard rips his gaze away to search again for a bridge to the island – the serpent heaves a sigh visible even from here, and a path of large stones rises out of the water.

As Renard leaps from stone to stone, resentment rolls in the back of his throat. If Fidel is to get the wish, he wishes to burst out laughing, then already Renard’s way of battle is damned. So of course wishes would go to Fidel. Even though Fidel is wavering on how to use it, favour comes still by rightness not of will or cause but of soul and sentiment. Irony! Fidel was so sure before, but now Renard is the one who knows what he wants. And isn’t that the damned problem!

Anything Fidel could wish for would be infuriatingly lukewarm. The devious hope engendered in Renard’s heart, then, is that Fidel would throw away his own wish, and find cause, second by second, to wish for Renard’s interests instead.

You must wish for soul rot to end, boy. You must wish for that!

...But even thinking this, Renard’s heart wavers, that if he had received the flower, of whether he would have managed to wish for that himself.

The shame of harbouring such lowly passions burns in his neck. The only consolation he can give himself is that at least he is honest, to himself, of how much he loathes this dark penchant, though simply stewing in it will do little.

His feet land on the neatly trimmed grass of the cottage’s front yard. The eaves are tiled with fish-scale patterns. Tulips thrive in beds by the porch. For the residence of a deity, this is a shockingly homely place. Likely a grandma would live here with her cats, far more than anyone powerful.

(Yet too, when Renard had power, where he wished to stay was Meurille,)

And across the yard is the tree. And at the base of the tree is that serpent, Arsene. The creature appears young and not-quite-human, whose silver face bursts out of the dark like a dead moon, as pale scales across his skin glint iridescent rainbows under fallow starlight.

What a petty, jealous wretch, Renard thinks, fist locking on sickening Kingslayer, to have destroyed everything good of this sacred place, but for the sliver it could keep for itself.

This is the brigand that stole humanity’s future.

This is the poisoner that would corrupt every man’s soul.

This is the abomination that murdered their architect.

And Renard squints, for all he can think upon seeing this thing, oh so wicked, and so powerful, and so legendary, is simply:

So pathetic.

The serpent rises, away from the tree, to reluctantly receive Renard.

This is the same entity they encountered in Ashurst. The same one who called Renard ‘stupid’.

This time, it is not a projection, but a solid form laced in no illusions. Thus, its influence here should be magnitudes greater than it was before – but as it approaches, nothing changes. Kingslayer does not even twitch. This creature has absolutely zero aura.

Inherently, that is alarming. Something that can conceal its danger is exponentially harder to judge. But its averageness is akin to that prodromal rift in Ashurst; or rather that rift was akin to it.

It is hard to even regard the creature. Plainly, it is there, standing full in front of him, but the space its silhouette occupies is like a blind spot imposed on the yard. Every instinct would prefer to consider something else, simply because everything else here is... more.

Renard wrenches his mouth into a frown and clears his throat to speak.

“How come I know you?" Arsene blurts first.

“Whh—?" Renard sputters. “You—vermin, do you not remember? I am the one who you... tormented in Ashurst!"

“So? And all of you are supposed to be dead," it titters.

That—children’s mockery! But then—if so—

Renard steels his throat. “Yet, beast, we are not."

“Shut up!" it snaps, pupils constricting like a hissing cat’s, and arms flaring out like the hood of a cobra. To collapse its pride took barely a tap.

“It’s not my fault you breed like bugs... and keep going to places you’re not supposed to..." Arsene murmurs to itself consolingly.

It’s not a confident creature. Such a flaw sounds like a weakness, and is, but one that makes it dangerously volatile. And shockingly... uncomfortably, a little relatable.

Fidel passes the final stone to join Renard in the yard. He recognizes Arsene as much as Renard did, and falls quiet in the same way.

Arsene cools, crosses his arms, and stares at Fidel appraisingly. Renard’s guts churn in the silence.

“I don’t know what Leah wants with you," Arsene finally sighs. “But there has to be some reason he let you come so far." There is a soothing sinuousness in the creature’s soft voice, and the light lisp on its ‘s’es. “...It’s probably to send you back to the surface. It would be really stupid to waste a gift from him on that."

“That’s... true," Fidel murmurs, and thumbs the flower in his palms.

“He’s being so generous. He’s giving you two miracles." Arsene squeezes his eyes shut, tears trailing down his cheeks. “And that you even got here... he probably gave you a thousand."

The sentiment in these words is jarringly discordant. The creature is simultaneously enraptured with a love so extreme that standing near to it is blinding, and seething with a jealousy so violent that the serpent’s failure to already lash out at them marks the thousand-and-first miracle.

“Speak of miracles, but I will tell, lost have we good men in this horror hole," Renard announces. “Where then was your kind, loving master? What spiteful death have you to envy? Nay, say I, not one miracle but our own feet is what brought us down to here."

“You couldn’t have," the enemy spits, “you couldn’t have. You’re lying," murmured with weak wilted conviction.

How much doubt must this beast must have. Its own words have discouraged it: perhaps it truly is possible that this pair bested Nix by their own effort, something Renard’s well-muscled frame and Kingslayer on his hip seem to attest in the serpent’s mind.

And may Verdan forgive him for this, but his positioning must be careful.

Yes, that’s exactly it, creature. And this flower is our reward! So crow, and surely…

“Wait," says Fidel.

“Fidel," Renard hisses.

“Wait," Fidel repeats. “Serpent... Arsene."

The creature shrugs an acknowledgement.

“Why aren’t you attacking us?"

It is, Fidel. It’s just subtle, Renard thinks in frustration.

“Do I need to?" it jabs petulantly, like a child. “Don’t things like you ever get satisfied? Or did you come here… even to here, just to rub it in more?"

“Rub what we but your own acts? Hae, creature, I see, rankled are you greatly by the perseverance of the human spirit, through all your little traps and your poisons. Indeed, I will tell, on the surface, we are quite happy and thriving as though you had done nothing at all! You have made nought for us but frontiers on which we whet our souls and abilities. Now exquisitely honed is our excellence, that it has met your master’s approval, merely by we doing as we would," Renard laughs, strolling to circle around Fidel to the opposite side of Arsene. “Find some cheer, you miserable thing — for if it is our glory that rankles you, our visits assure you will be rankled a thousand years more."

Arsene falls too furiously mute to even tremble.

“—You’re making all this up! What about your friends who died? You just talked about them, how come you already forgot?" he shouts. “If you can say all that… you don’t have glory! Leah didn’t give anything to you! You’re too stupid! It went all to him!"

He points in rage at Fidel, with the flower.

“That boy is my squire, beast. He retrieves for me the things I cannot be troubled to pick up."

“You dummy," Arsene gawks, as if wanting to skin Renard’s face, then his own. “You gave it all up, and you can’t even tell. You’re too stupid to know that you’re stupid. I bet the world is actually awful and you just can’t see it because people like you like being awful and you always get away with it. That’s all. You’re such a human," the word drips like a curse.

Arsene straightens himself and crosses his arms. “Someday you’ll figure that out," he brags. “Someday you all will when nothing gets better. Because he’ll wish for something stupid, too. He’s been wishing for stupid things. I wish you all were dead." Guilt strikes the monster as swiftly as it voices these words. Its demeanour again cools and its gaze shifts inquisitively to Fidel.

Something is binding the monster to keep it from combat. No… it is merely satisfied now that it is superior to people. That is a level of connection, though false, by which it seems more willing to expose itself. If it can then be goaded to come closer, Renard may be able to land a ferocious, and decisive, first hit.

“I don’t think we need to fight," Fidel says.

Arsene nods coolly. Finally. You get it, its dry expression says.

“I understand… correctly, that you can place us back on the surface?"

Arsene nods again, rolling its eyes. Duh.

Stop giving it charity, Fidel! Renard screams inside himself, but struggles to voice. Stop treating this thing like it’s harmless!

“With the wish?" Fidel checks.

“Yes," says Arsene perfunctorily, then frowns with a complex regret.

“Sire," Fidel looks to Renard. “We… then, we should have the means to end all of this. I think… I think that we’ve won."

No! No,

—Is your heart sure, Fidel? The words jump to Renard’s tongue but stick in his strained neck, a powerful cringe tightening all of Renard’s body. No, no, no! His heart stomps a furious tantrum inside a ribcage like a dark cave, as iron weights like cannonballs drag it deeply and deeply far down. No!

Fidel, you idiot, you idiot! Why are you trusting the words of a snake? Certainly the Demiurge’s servant may follow the letter of its oaths, but plainly not the spirit of them, if its own master is dead at its hands. Do you not understand that this thing hates you? Are you not hearing how it wishes you dead, or do you ignore it because it is not waving about a sword?

Curse it, there are a thousand ways to slip a dagger into this deal. Admittedly, Renard cannot think of them, but opening a window for the serpent will doubtless invite something sinister.

But no, no, no, it’s not that Fidel is stupid...

...it’s even worse, that he’s...

...hopeful.

Renard’s innards all graunch as if caught in a rusty plough. In speaking with Arsene, it feels like Fidel does understand the weight of the wish he must make. But equally, in speaking with Arsene, it has affirmed to Renard that just ending soul rot would not be enough.

There is something even deeper that is churning in his guts.

Something whose name he cannot pinpoint, but that has been with him for a long time. It is... dark... and vile, but earnest with aspiration...

...

But what if Fidel is right to be hopeful?

If he casts the wish to end soul rot, and like a new season’s gust, the air clears with no further riposte. The abomination and poison is simply dissolved from the world. New babes are born, names are celebrated, and he may retire, to a healed Lacren (though this is not truth), or to the embrace of Colette in her manor.

Peace in itself is not objectionable... nor is to rebuild Lacren, to mend the mess he has sown. Making messes, mending messes, by hope, being forgiven for messes... his life always is like this.

Why does that prospect feel so—so— like he is going to puke?

Is he that much of filth?

Burning wells beneath his eyes boil with sobs too violent to spill. I don’t want anyone to ever be a ghoul any more!

“Serpent!" Renard barks.

Arsene jolts his gaze away from Fidel’s cupped hands.

“Draw your blade. What have I come here for but to contest this?"

“You don’t know what a dummy you are," Arsene mutters to himself, and instead looks to Fidel.

“Nay, keenly I know my stupidity as keenly I know the edge of my blade. For what is one little man, against a creature so mighty it could murder the father of all men?" Anger seeps into his voice that he did not expect.

“You didn’t even know him," Arsene again averts his gaze.

“Both of you, stop," says Fidel.

“Hae, we did not. And does it comfort you! That we would be all ingrates, orphans, and fools, when it was you who seeded the resentment, that any one of us could ever think we were abandoned?" Kingslayer groans, slowly, out of its scabbard.

“But you were already like that. You agreed to all this." Though disaffected on the surface, Arsene’s voice is rising decibel by minute decibel. “I didn’t do anything that he didn’t want. Of course you’d be so annoying, to talk like you know anything…"

Renard’s heart stumbles. It feels true that God could’ve stopped things before they got to this point, but equally…

“Well beast, I tell you one certainty!" His belligerence towards something so passive — he must look like a red-faced raving idiot. “That I have only lived because your God took favour on me, of all wretches!" Renard’s guts clench. He cannot even be sure that what he is saying is true. “And cast me a thousand times against the monsters you wish to make of us — and a thousand times, I prevailed!"

“Leah prevailed. You didn’t do anything."

“Deaf thing, that is what I say! So draw your blade, ingrate: and let it be measured in iron and in blood, of whom it really is your master stands to favour."

Arsene’s serpentine pupils narrow into dagger-thin lines. It remains passive — it remains impassive — but under a face as still as a dead, silent lake, what is roiling in the air around the serpent is hatred. Renard’s jibes and challenges have hit their mark on some level. But even then, it will not fight him. It will not face him to even concede a fight to him.

For it is an honourless thing.

And it is the way of honourless things, that for another’s voice to be heard, they must become even more honourless.

Arsene squeezes his arms, its gaze locked on to the ground. Its mind slots and works in cogs, the thoughts churning in the air transparent as congealing water: I’m so done with this. I don’t need to deal with you. There is no doubt in Renard’s mind, by an instinct honed over years of facing such duplicitous beasts, and a strong basic sense of subtle aggressions, of what it is about to do.

Arsene will, in the next second, kick him back to the surface — and that will be the end of this venture.

Urgency and panic pulse bonfires through Renard’s heart. Kingslayer drawn, he twists quick as a mongoose—

—and plunges the night-black blade of Kingslayer into the tree towering right behind him, laced in its shining red flowers, that is the corpse of the Demiurge Camille.