Perhaps

~ Chapter 1 ~

For a time young Francois wondered why his father hit him. He always kept his nicest clothes clean when he wore them and he did his best to play nice with the other children. He studied as hard as he could at school. More than anything he practiced swordsplay as his father wished and watched his father spar every day. Even on his best behavior though, his father would strike him. It was usually his right cheek and he’d fall to the ground after the blow landed. Francois found that if he didn’t collapse, his father would keep hitting him. It was a painful lesson.

Francois’s father was a well respected knight. He held a large fief, he lightly taxed his people, and for the most part he was well liked. He doted on his wife and he loved his other children unconditionally, but Francois drove him mad. There was something unusual about Francois that no one could ever discover. It was a magical taint that had corrupted him at birth. He had no physical deformity or he would have been put to the sword long ago. Instead it was internal and it let him weave the aether itself. When Francois was three he first displayed the ability to manipulate the world around him. He ran to his mother the moment that he lifted a plate with his mind. She struck him. This was the first time he had ever been hit and it confused him. At first, when Francois’s father learned of his wife’s actions he was outraged at her. When he saw for himself what Francois was all too overjoyed to show again, Francois’s father began to beat him too.

It was only for a time that he had to endure his father’s blows though. By the time Francois turned six his father was sent off to war and he never returned. Like a loyal vassal he fought to the death and a Lord lead them straight into a hail of crossbow fire. Francois often spent time trying to imagine his father shielding his Lord with his own body and fighting to protect his men. His father did so dearly care for the lives of others. Now he was gone though and Francois could only quietly miss him. Yes he beat him, but he was also a very loving man. Francois would always remember him as the greatest father ever. He would do everything to respect his father’s memories.

Without fail, Francois hid his internal deformity from everyone. It was his most disgusting trait and he’d keep it hidden if only to please the spirit of his father. He spent his days studying in school and training on the field. When the time came that his family could no longer afford his tuition he put all of his efforts into training for war. For years they knew poverty and Francois found himself gaunt. While his condition worried him and impeded his growth, he was more concerned for his mother and sisters. He was their guardian now that father was gone.

At the age of eleven, before he had had a chance to become a man, Francois placed himself into the arena and pitted himself in combat for money. It was humiliating to have everyone laugh at him. A starved child was going to compete against grown men who had served in campaigns and who knew real battle. The laughing quieted when Francois beat a man senseless with his wooden sword. A fluke, the crowd jeered. The boy had cheated. His opponent had thrown the match. Perhaps the man was drunk or just an idiot. Francois let nothing break his resolve and the crowd’s cruel words washed over him. The next match hardly had a moment to begin before Francois had his opponent pinned by the neck to the arena wall. It was getting harder for the crowd to rationalize the fury that they had just witnessed. There were no flaws to his technique and not a single movement was wasted. The boy moved like a whirlwind and his swings were so precise, guided, and refined that he made his opponent’s look incompetent. The crowd flew into a rage, as the only explanation left was that he was cheating. “Feed him to the lions, the little cheater!” The crowd shouted, “Let a beast eat his damned eyes!” This was savage and cruel. Such matches were reserved for groups of skilled combatants to display heroism and showmanship. That day, before the king’s presence, it would be used to kill a small boy.

Amongst the shouts Francois did not waver. His breath was unnaturally steady and calm. As the animals were uncaged and released into the ring, there was a fearful hiss from each of them. Most lions would roar and bear their fangs at any opponent but these animals could feel the reverberation of Francois’s unnatural blade. They could feel the breathless air that surrounded him. He robbed his environment of everything so that he would never tire. Around Francois the air was stale, hot, and dry. No man would ever realize this, but it created an unnatural hum that terrified animals. The animals were so deeply scared that none of the lions, tigers, or other beasts would approach the young man, so Francois chased them down. When the blood of the last creature wet the ground, the crowd hushed. No one had given Francois a metal blade. He had beaten the poor creatures to death with his blunt wooden sword. The rest of the tournament went as would be expected. Francois tore through his competition. He was phenomenal and unwavering. As the day waged on Francois won the crowd over and by the end of the tournament he was showered with rewards and accolades.

By the time he was of working age, Francois had earned a reputation of being unstoppable. On his thirteenth birthday the king summoned the young man and offered him a salary if he could prove himself in actual war. The war that had taken his father had raged on for seven years now and the king was growing tired of it. There were no more simple land grabs and there was a growing poverty from the endless strife. The only things growing from all of this were grudges between families. Without hesitation Francois accepted. His family would know prosperity again.

On this warpath Francois was an unyielding force. His skill kept him alive and his anger drove him forward. He imagined with all of his might that every man that stood before him had a hand in killing his father. When in this fervor he was truly merciless and drove wave after wave of enemy troops back. Whispers amongst the frontlines began to tell of him, the luckiest demon ever born. No matter how thick the sky was clouded with arrows or how many blades swung down upon him, he would never be touched. The secret wasn’t luck though; he merely cheated. Cheating at life may seem despicable and can even make a victory hollow, but by using the gifts granted to him by birth he saved the lives of countless men and routed enemy armies before their reinforcements could arrive. Francois spent four years on the battlefield before he returned home. Little of his victory was attributed to him.

Generals squawked and squabbled over how their tactical genius was what led the battles to such overwhelming success. Advisers and soldiers all clamored to claim parts of the victory to their contribution. The truth of the matter was irrelevant though, as Francois had seen true combat and found himself unfazed. It was an odd way to think of it, but what was important was that he had a good head on his shoulders and he had worked hard for his victory. His family was well provided for and he was pleased that he had a good mind for this type of work. Many men went mad on the battlefield and even killing a single man could be enough to take their stomach away. Not Francois though.

Everyone was greedy for the fame and notoriety that Francois could earn them. He was but a pawn in the face of everyone who wanted the king’s attention. It did not take long for his return to incite infighting amongst those that controlled the royal court. He was invited to lavish dinners, sponsored for heroic tournaments, and had poets write epochs of his deeds. Everyone yearned for his loyalty as they clawed at each other for the king’s favor. Francois loved the attention and ate it all up. His mother was so proud of him too. Best of all, at the end of each day, he could go home and sweep his little sisters up, asking them about their day’s lessons. He would see them be brilliant scholars and great minds so that they would never have to taste war.

It did not take long for the king to see through the antics of his court though. The king was a lazy man, but he was not stupid. He would sit in his chambers consuming the richest wines and powdering his bread with the dust of pearls. While eating away his wealth he would ponder on the actions of those around him and use that to gauge what was really going on. He knew that advisers would lie and peasants would always beg for more, but they had reasons to do so. The latest conspiracy was the young knight Francois, who had swept across the arena before his very eyes not many years ago. The boy had potential and the king wanted him for himself. To do this, he schemed.

Mere days passed before Francois was summoned before the king again. He was challenged in court, accused of lying of his deeds. Soldiers he had fought beside claimed that he was a dead weight in battle, that he had abandoned his fellow men, and that he often stole supplies. They demanded reparations in the form of Francois’s head. Francois was taken aback and did not know why they would levy such claims against him. He was a force of nature not to be matched on the field of battle but when it came to words and law he was at a loss. He had nothing to defend himself with and as the accusations piled up, he found himself in tears. The searing pain of their lies hurt him more than he thought he could ever be hurt. In his mind he found himself begging for his cheek to swell again just to take away the vicious lashings that these liars were giving him with their tongues. His defense was weak and without evidence or witnesses. The three judges hearing his case scoffed at his attempts to describe his miraculous combat. Generals and tacticians who doted on him before were nowhere to be found either. It was here that Francois found himself truly alone and by the end of the night he was in stocks, thrown into a dungeon.

For three lonely days he endured his cell without food. His resolve to abide by the decision of his country held fast though. If he became a wanted criminal then everything he had worked for would be taken away. His mother would be without a home and his sisters would lose their education. For them, he endured. On the fourth day a mangy messenger slipped the guard something and then forced a lavish meal through his cage. There was a letter inside which he was meant to read, but Francois explained he was illiterate. He had spent many years in school but he had a learning disorder which prevented him from reading or writing. The mangy messenger read the paper to him. It read that the king knew his innocence and was fighting for him. It asked him to be strong and to endure for the time being.

Francois’s heart warmed at the message and he knew he had a true friend in the king. Where everyone else had abandoned him, the king fought for him. Where everyone else could have cleared his name in the court, surely the king would have if he weren’t so busy; kingly duties must be time consuming after all.

A week of lashings and beatings followed. Francois accepted each torture with pride and a light heart. Sure enough, at the end of the week he was freed by decree of the court. The witnesses had been found to be turncoat conspirators and each was sentenced to execution. Francois was free and now forever in the debt of the king. Never would his heart falter or would he disobey him. Now the king just needed to see what his loyalty was worth.

The test came suddenly and unexpectedly a few nights later. Francois was spending a week at the castle to instruct the guard there when he heard someone creeping into his chambers. They drove their knife at his chest and he tore his nails at their throat. He was faster and ripped out the jugular of the would-be assassin. Without hesitation, he leapt out of his sheets and gathered his trusty axe. Not even taking the time to put a shirt on, Francois rushed to alert the guard. He was too late though and the entirety of the barracks was dead. Scrambling about were quiet footsteps tapping on the stone floors. Francois stole the feel of the air currants and listened with his mind for their locations. There were assassins everywhere. Choosing the swiftest route, Francois cut his way to the king and rescued a few of the advisers that lived in the castle as well. He armed them with the assassin’s blades and asked the advisers to guard the king as he secured the grounds.

It was a bloody battle but Francois was meticulous. By the time he was done, he had killed more than three dozen men. Someone was planning to usurp the throne tonight and so he went out to meet them by the gates. He assumed they hadn’t planned to siege the castle and instead they were going to waltz right in. His guess was correct and he found the portcullis jammed open. The steady beat of hooves rode in and he had only minutes to prepare before they arrived. No reinforcements were coming to his aid. Tonight, Francois would hold off an entire army by himself. He steeled his wits and mustered every ounce of courage that he could find.

When the enemy surged forward they met a half clothed man with an axe standing at the gate alone. They did not even waver as they tried to ride past him but Francois would let none pass. The horses recoiled as they drew close to him and those that did not dismount found themselves being dragged away. The battle would be fought on foot. There was no respect in these fights. On the field of battle, men would come to each other’s aid should they be wounded. In the arena, fights were fought one on one and yielded when someone became too injured. Here fifty men charged at Francois at once. As he cut them down he used each one to form walls to either side of him out of their bodies. Not all were dead, but rather than rescue their comrades most of the enemy fled after meeting him at arms. After the first fifty, another hundred came, then another. When the flurries of blades weren’t coming at him, Francois was pelted with waves of arrows. Whoever came to take the throne brought a truly massive force with them. They were taking no chances and he hadn’t anticipated this.

No matter how many arrows glided towards him or how many men fought him, no one was able to scratch Francois. He was truly a hero of legend. Hundreds upon hundreds of men died to him as he crushed their breastplates and gashed open their flesh. Every droplet of blood was a spray of water that Francois used to refresh himself. It was a sick act that he usually deplored, yet here it was a necessity. His mind clenched out the liquids in the blood and rushed them into his own body. Eventually he was surrounded by mounds of the dead. Arrows, bolts, spears, and stones covered the entirety of the ground except for where Francois stood. He was immovable and unbeatable. The entirety of the enemy army wavered against him and their ranks broke in fear. It seemed as if he had won. What should have been an overwhelming success on the invaders part was halted entirely by one man. The only injuries that marred his appearance were those that he had received under torture so many weeks ago. He was fast, strong, quick-witted, his technique was impeccable, and his foot work managed to be better. Francois was perfect in combat.

“Lay down your arms and surrender or the king dies.” An adviser bellowed at Francois from behind. Like a fool he had left the king in the hands of the enemy this entire time. Without a second though, Francois let his axe fall and dropped to his hands and knees. His loyalty was absolute. He owed the king everything.

Francois was taken in chains and the enemy finally stormed the castle. What was left of their ranks swept everywhere. When they were finally done, a large, boisterous man broke into the courtyard. His heft was deceptive as his disgustingly huge muscles rippled underneath his painfully thin clothing. With one glare he took in the sight of the yard, of his dead men, of the king, and of the young man in shackles. With a laugh he kicked Francois’s head into the ground.

“One man did this? One stupid, lowly scumbag of a man did this?” He drove his heel into the back of Francois’s head.

The loud, large man held a look of disdain on his face as he considered everything. Then in a flash it welled into a huge grin. “King, if you wish to live, I’ll let you. I’ll keep you as an adviser so that I never fail as badly as you did. Before I do though, I want you to publicly renounce your crown to me. I also want this man branded a criminal and stripped of everything: name, home, title, everything.” He chuckled and spit on Francois. The king, of course, happily accepted.

The ceremony was brief the next day. The king stood before a crowd and announced Charles the revolutionary as the new king. He then announced that as his last act as king, he stripped Francois of everything. Francois was no longer a knight, no longer a land owner, and no longer a citizen. He was branded with an ‘X’ and that was to be his name from that day on. Of course, as soon as everything was done, the former king was immediately executed by decapitation before the crowd.

X had his fingers, hands, and feet broken. Steel rods were beaten through his legs and the ligaments of his arms were cut, twisted, and burned. His tongue was sliced out and his mouth was sewn shut with steel wire. He was fed a dry, crusted loaf of bread once every week. Every day he was dressed in a jester’s outfit and forced to perform for Charles. Unable to do much, Charles mostly made X try to juggle balls, only to collapse under his own weight. X was then beaten and branded with a hot iron. To keep him passive, Charles reminded X that he had little sisters and that it would only take a word to bring them through this very same treatment. X endured. He endured until Charles grew tired of his starved face and had a black mask soldered onto it.  He endured the constant humiliation and the desperate attempts to crack his bread so he could fit it through the steel wire covering his mouth. X endured. X endured. More than anything, he endured the horrid cell in which he was kept and isolation. He was alone now, but in his heart he knew he was not truly alone. So X endured.