Perhaps ch3 Preview

I don't have enough time today to come up with something even passingly clever or creative. Please accept my apologies. Instead of a hasty scribble here is the first page of Perhaps chapter 3. I'm actually quite a few pages into it but it's less history than the first two chapters so it's coming out and subsequently taking a lot longer.

Communication was difficult even at the best of times. The ragged man who had saved X was deluded and lost in his own world. The woman in red armor and the person in blue armor hardly ever talked at all. This problem was compounded by the fact that X couldn’t say a word. More than anything he needed to know where they were going. Judging by the sun they were traveling to the west deeper into the desert where no civilization was.

There were strange things in the desert that flickered beyond the corner of your eye. Creatures that ebbed and snarled, grasping at something that X could not see. Much of the time it looked as if they followed the ragged man. Something about him drew these shadows and apparitions. Initially it seemed as if X was the only one who noticed these visions until the ragged man brushed one off as it tried to bite him. These were strange people accustomed to strange things and X found himself curious beyond curious about them.

To the three of them these creatures were likely common sights, which meant something important but X wasn’t quite sure what yet. In his current state he was as impotent as ever. Luckily the person clad in Blue noticed his fidgeting and walk beside him for company. “Salutations jester, I hope that you are not too warm?” X hadn’t noticed it before but he was pleasantly refreshed even though they were in the desert. It wasn’t just that he was used to poor conditions, it was that the person in blue was sucking the heat away from them and their surroundings. An aura of chill was pervasive around him. “You probably want to know where we are going and why. I am Chevalier and we are traveling to the cursed desert city of Owens. Our new friend in the tattered wear has unfinished business there and did not appreciate that we abducted him.” Chevalier the blue explained.

Abducted.

The ragged boy did not seem like someone who had been abducted. He held himself professionally if not a bit creepily, rather than in a sulking or defeated manner. Before Chevalier could leave, X needed to know one more thing. With a slow motion of his hands he pointed to the shadowy creatures that he could barely see wisps of in the corner of his eyes. This was a remarkable feat, in all honesty. Chevalier merely shrugged, “We are somewhere close to somewhere else. They are harmless but the tattered one looks delicious so they try to eat him anyway.” That was a horrifying thought and not what X wanted to hear. At least they were harmless, that was good.

Before returning to the side of the woman in red, Chevalier unraveled a smoked, salted fish. It was cooked perfectly with just a bit of browning. Slowly and carefully Chevalier pinched it and broke it into small pieces then threw the bone away. Keeping all of the meat on the cloth it was being kept in, he placed it in X’s hands. There was a happy smile coming from Chevalier though X could not see it, he knew it was there. Hidden behind the cold, blue helmet of Chevalier was a very warm hearted person.

Gosh, it was really delicious. Oh you have no idea how X savored it. Yes, he couldn’t actually taste the fish or the salt, but that was really beside the point. It was tender and soft on his mouth and a rush of memories hit him of what food really was like. Within every morsel was the flavor of kindness. A good person can make a meal that much more scrumptious. For the first time in a long time X was welcome in this world and though no one could see it behind his mask, he was smiling too. As good as it was, X couldn’t actually eat very much. Much like when he was a child, his stomach had shrunk so much that anything more than a few morsels made him uncomfortably bloated.

Perhaps ch2

Chapter 2

In another world, another time, one that gleamed of rubies or sapphires, one that was laden with silver there would have been another ending to this story; another world where rich, powerful men did rich, powerful things. In this world there was only X.

X clawed at his cage with the little strength that he had left. He felt betrayed to his core. The king whom he had sworn absolute loyalty to had abandoned him in a heartbeat. Every ounce of courage, determination, and respect that was in X had been given to that man. Now he clawed at his cage, scooping up the last of the crumbs that he could find. They were dry and harder than rocks but they were something where he otherwise had nothing.

Hunger and thirst were now his bed partners. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he was just left to rot but they kept him alive and active. X was forced to dance and juggle for that bastard when he could hardly stand under his own power. This kept him hungry and suffering. It had been four months now and he was desperate. The thought of death was such a welcoming one; to end all of this torment was equal to bliss at this point. It was so much so that the lives of his family were insignificant compared to this. His resolve never let him die though. He stayed alive in captivity far beyond when other men would have been broken. He held what little spit he had left in him back when he saw Charles knowing the consequences of dribbling on that man.

The mask that was soldered onto X’s face covered his mouth. Slipping food in was no easy task. There was just enough of a hole in the bottom that he could wedge small pieces in and slide them through the steel wires where he might choke on them. Every taste was painful without a tongue but it kept him nourished enough to keep going.

In the months that passed X learned to juggle with his decrepit body and failing health. He taught himself to stand again and where his ligaments failed him he reinforced his bones with his own mental powers. They were faint and weak at times, so he did his best not to stand when he could. By all means he was actually a skilled performer by the time that Charles grew tired of him.

Charles was a man with no taste for mercy. Everything needed to be calculated. Every move needed to resonate with his genius for he needed to be powerful. It was his birthright to be ruler, though he was not born of royal blood. His birthright came from his willpower. He was determined and he knew the weaknesses of men. He knew how to inspire them and how to break them. The humiliation of one murderer is enough to gain the absolute loyalty of an army. It just needs to be the right murderer.

For many years Charles had lived in a small town, too young to act of his own accord but too big of a thinker to be content with that. Whenever he could, he wished to test his limits and the limits of others. He would secretly abuse the other children until they broke and then he waited to see how they broke. First he wanted to see the effects of physical abuse. When you beat someone to within an inch of their life they will do anything and believe anything. No matter who it was, it was just a matter of how many bones to break and how deep the lacerations needed to be to achieve this. They’ll promise the world and even sometimes come through with it. It was an inconsistent means of getting what you want though. The adults would find out and punish you. There would be a great amount of sympathy for the beaten child and anything that you did gain was taken away. It was miserable.

The next option was an emotional play. Charles would harass and belittle the other children until they could take no more. He would strip them of their friends with nasty lies and rumors, belittle them before their parents, and verbally abuse them whenever he had the chance. Threats kept them in place. Here the problem was the death rates. If you break a man too much then he kills himself. Charles had pushed a little girl just a bit too far when he learned this. She broke. The light left her eyes. She walked off of a bridge without hesitation. This was useful to Charles but it also did not give him what he wanted. He wanted to be a ruler and dead men weren’t worth ruling over. God that was exhilarating though.

It took five weeks of abuse. First he hurt her subtly. He began to cut her and bleed her. She had to promise to tell no one. He made her believe that this was right and necessary, that she was doing a good thing. Then he told on her, told her parents she was hurting herself. Word spread like wildfire that she was crazy and trying to summon monsters. No one would believe the stories that she spun to them as she tried to create a web of lies to escape from this nightmare. Next he spread rumors to her friends. He shared his candies and sweet words with them but only if they stopped associating with the creepy girl. When they teased her, he gave them more. Then there was no one for her. She was alone. Three weeks of absolute loneliness and taunting was all it took for her to kill herself. Those were perhaps the three most fun weeks of Charles’s life.

Finally he began to manipulate men socially. Where there was no desperation he would make desperation before and when the dust settled he would offer them an out. Not everyone would be given an opportunity of course. Those that were given more were the most loyal only if they were above other men that they thought were less worthy than them. Charles learned this through a trial of fire.

He burned and stole everything he could from his neighbors one night. The poor couple lost their daughter in the fire as well as their worldly possessions. Charles continued to rob them of their dignity by shaming them for letting their daughter die. Publicly and privately he harassed them and made them feel like the entire community was against them. Soon he turned them against their friends and well-wishers until no one was left. Lies and words are some of the most powerful weapons one can have. Through their trials they persevered but grew bitter of those that turned their backs on them. The next test needed to be whether he could supplant himself as the one and only friend. He could. He did. Charles could take anything from them then. He could rule.

Soon he was old enough to do as he pleased and the adults and the authorities no longer mattered to him. Charles went around them and began larger experiments. The most efficient means of desperation was poverty and sickness, so he spread diseases and tainted wells. Any money that he had went to hire men to act as bandits to cut off any relief. When things were grimmest he would step in and offer not the cure but an alternative. A way to get even with those that had abandoned them. He created a problem and thus a need for him. Time and time again he proved he could care for these people where no one else could.

It was only a matter of time before X broke from the torture that Charles put him through. Unfortunately, that was unacceptable. As powerful and accomplished as X was, he had too much loyalty to the former king. Even if he was made loyal now and his body miraculously repaired, he would be a liability that Charles could not risk. Instead he would be a pawn. The boy, X, would be sent to the south as a token of lasting peace. If the accounts were true then X had killed thousands of men on the battlefield. Some say his fury was beyond even that. He’d be tried as a war criminal and put to death. Even if they wanted to salvage him there wasn’t much left to salvage. This token would continue to buy Charles time to consolidate his newly acquired resources.

X was loaded into his next cage. It was dingy, small, and smelled of fear. Eerily it was a step up from the cell that he had been living it. No food provisions were provided for him, “You’ll have to beg for anything to eat dog.” He was told. The ounces and scraps of pride that X had left wouldn’t allow it. The men guarding him were not the soldiers he had grown up knowing. They had not fought any hard battles and they did not work towards the good of their nation. Instead, these guards were absolutely loyal to a wretched man and they had a grudge against him.

Forcing the crumbs from under his nails, where they had stuck fast in his desperation over the last few months, X was able to lure vermin and bugs to him. They made a richer meal than he had been used to for quite awhile. At the very least they were enough to sustain him until he reached wherever he was going. No matter what, he needed to survive and endure so that his family would be alright. Amazingly Charles had not killed them yet, if only because of how insignificant their deaths would be.

Day dawned on X for the first time in a long time. While he was being shipped off to who knows where, he thought of many things. Was he really just X now? Francois Tulavont was actually a rather marvelous name and he would miss it. The man he was most loyal to though, his sovereign, had stripped him of it. One day he would earn the name back but until then, he would respect that he was truly no longer a person in the eyes of his country.

His next thoughts were of how he was going to escape. It was difficult to formulate proper thoughts and keep them when so malnourished though he did his best regardless. Survival was mostly likely if he could escape and repair himself. It’d be better if he could kill the guards too but that was unlikely. Perhaps a smoke screen that would make it appear as if he had died? No matter what plan he went with, it would be complicated if he intended to keep his family alive and escape successfully.

The cage around him wasn’t much of a cage at all. The steel was firm and the bars tight but it still had a lock. Within moments of being thrown in there he had groped it with his mind. The lock and its mechanism were already intimate with him. In a moment he could slip it open and crawl away with any strength he could muster. Now just would be the right moment.

With bated breath X waited for that perfect moment to emerge. Something drastic needed to happen that he might egress into the shelter of a nearby forest. It needed to be a forest that he might dig himself in. It wouldn’t take long to catch him and find him otherwise. The trail that he would undoubtedly leave he could cover up and mislead with, with only a push of wind. Once he had a hole to hide in he would be in the clear. The last part of the puzzle was finding some way to make it seem like he hadn’t escaped and was instead kidnapped or killed.

Through the fields and mountains he schemed away. Rivers crossed and moons rose and set. Soon the arid lands of the south were upon them and the last forests they would see would be soon. Years ago a magical taint had grown in the south. It shifted the dirt and grew mountains and volcanoes where there had been only fields before. A desert woke in the presence of these new elements and this land was known as the cursed land.

Here children were born with magical corruptions much like X. Most were physical and they were put to death as monstrosities. Sometimes it was horns or extra limbs, other times it was writing on their body that spoke of evil things. Assumedly, if they were left to grow they would have begun to manifest abilities as X had. It was doubtful that they would make much use of them though. If the old stories were to be believed, the first people who grew up in such conditions manifested magical abilities that defied logical convention. They were mighty in what they could do and in exchange made sacrifices to the dark gods that fed them. When they were tested against trained combatants though, they were pathetic. Yes they did have much power, some spouting fire and others growing stones like flowers, but they were not men of mettle. Their abilities granted them no boons when they were met with steel. As far as X was concerned, he was one of a kind.

Sordid sands sifted sinfully scalding sore sinew. Any strength that was still in X needed to be steeled now that he might make his escape attempt when they saw green again over the rusty yellow dunes. He breathed nervously, ready to test his luck. Luck was a commodity that he had precious little of but he intended to spend it all here on this gamble.

And then something that he never thought would happen destroyed his plan with an eruption.

“How dare you whip my horse!” A voice that had gargled brimstone spouted like thunder.

As the voice echoed the guards replied in whatever bravado they could muster. They spouted about their importance, “If you stand in our way you declare war on the northern lands,” they protested any action against them. X had heard this kind of voice before. Perhaps it did not carry the same frightening weight but it was a commanding voice of a father caring for his child. Someone had just done something very stupid.

Stupid could not be reiterated enough as spikes of fire erupted around them turning the sand to glass. For a moment X could see his visage. He looked broken. To anyone who could not hear his thoughts he must have looked absolutely pathetic. Just as the simulacrum was birthed in the glass it was shattered into a thousand pieces as molten stones clashed against it. Wait. Those weren’t stones. Very carefully X examined a few fragments that sputtered into and around his cage. These were parts of a human skull; probably one of the guards.

No wonder there wasn’t visceral screaming or tearing. Whoever was doing this was collapsing these men with the same unholy powers that X himself contained. Perhaps theirs were even mightier than his. Not that his were truly splendid, to be honest. He could exert a small force on the outside world with his mind. Whoever was doing this just turned the desert into glass.

Then he saw him. Her? It. Whoever was doing all of the killing appeared to be done. They rode atop a giant flaming steed which spat flames when it neighed. It neighed a lot, even for a horse. The rider was clearly insane, dressed head to toe in deep red plate armor, slightly adorned with robes in the desert. It was when they finally spoke without that maligned anger in their voice that X was finally able to pin them. The rider was a she and she had just killed his captors.

For months X had clawed at his cage to scrounge for scraps. For days he had clawed at his head to help him think and concentrate. Now he clawed at his bars that he might escape away from this creature.

As the last of the blood on her broadsword burned away she took notice of the man dressed as a jester locked in a cage. Even through his baggy clothes she could see his bones. Perhaps he was a slave. It was unlikely that anyone traveling with the guards would be this emaciated or locked in a cage. With the hilt of her sword she smashed the lock on his cage open.

“You are free. Be gone.” She said not realizing that he probably couldn’t walk and they were deep within the desert.

X inched his way out of his cage and into freedom. When the woman and her horse turned to leave he made the only sound that he could to grab her attention. It was a mumbled gurgle as a plea for help. Neither the woman nor her horse recognized it. It wasn’t until there was an unpleasant chill in the air that someone recognized his grief. A man dressed in rags beside something clad in the thickest blue armor he had ever seen. The man in rags lifted X up and quickly examined him.

“His arms no longer have full function. His legs may not function at all. At the very least his feet are shattered. Possible cracked ribs that have healed improperly. How are you alive?” The man in rags stopped, “No matter. We should bring him with us so he doesn’t die here. No point in rescuing a slave if all you’re going to do is kill him with the elements.”

The woman in red disagreed, “You’re too sentimental. We cannot care for everyone.”

The man in rags gave a disgusted sound, “Then why are we traveling at all? We save everyone. If not everyone, then everyone we can. You promised me. You promised me you were nothing like the heartless demons.”

There was a moment of silence where X held his breath. This determined if he lived or died. “You talk too much. Fine.” She said, dismounting from her flaming horse. The ragged man lifted X onto it and to X’s surprise he wasn’t burnt to a crisp. Instead, the horse felt rather cool, as if it was siphoning heat from him. Perhaps it fed on the warmth around it? That wouldn’t explain its physiology or the fact that it probably didn’t have physiology and was just fire in the shape of a horse; things that didn’t matter right now.

Happy sighs escaped X. He finally had time to think about things that didn’t matter. It had been so long since he could think like these. Even if everyone moment he lived from this moment was in peril, he would cherish these few thoughts.

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.