Valor go Hunting, Ch. 3 On My Own Merits (Patreon)

King Renart Arthurias Emmery Tarthan gave a massive bellow of laughter as he returned Isaac's energetic hug one-handed.  He was a man wholly too big for the world it seemed; the very image of the ideal Warrior-King, though he admittedly was more weathered as of late than any had ever seen him before. His once all-black hair, tied back in a warrior’s tail, had started already turning grey despite their father not being over 50, although he looked it at times, and one of his eyes, scarred over, was milky white.

He wore a regal if over-straining tunic, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric taut.  Every inch both King and Knight, their sire still remained the most impressive Monarch of all Ten Kingdoms.  It was rather alarming to Simon to see one of those muscled arms currently wrapped from elbow to wrist in thick bandages, but his father acted as if it pained him not at all.

Cole was next, the two large men more wrestling than actually embracing, while Vincent's hug was sophisticated if also enthusiastic.  Sighing, but with a small chuckle, Simon at last stepped up for his obligatory hug.  His father's beard tickled his face and bear-like arms crushed him to his bulky, hairy chest.  Simon returned the ferocious clasp, clenching his arms tight no matter his exhaustion and giving back as much as he got.

At last, they all lined up facing their father, standing at attention with their feet set apart and hands clasped behind their backs.  Their backs were straight, faces set forwards, and waiting patiently as their father strode back and forth, eyeing their apparel, appearances, and making comments, concerns, and questions as he went.  Finally, he reached Simon, staring down at him sternly.

"Where did this come from?" he asked, tapping the recently patched cut across Simon's nose.

"I have many scars, Father," Simon answered, smirking up at him in the vain hope that he could play it off.  He'd been dreading this conversation since arriving at home, having already put up with his brothers' teasing about it, even if he hadn't bothered to explain himself to them.

"And I've memorized every single one," the man rumbled gravely.  "It pains me to see your mother’s tender features besmirched with a wound like that."

Simon looked down, the rest of his brothers following suit, before, as usual, their eyes all gravitated towards the massive portrait that hung on the wall above the fireplace.  

Their mother, Queen Katrin Gweledyd Alsight, had been among the most gorgeous women of all the Ten Kingdoms. Often hailed as the living embodiment of the Goddess, the rumor was proclaimed openly by the people who remembered her most fondly, which was nearly everyone.  

Her smile on the canvas was radiant, if distant, as if she hadn't wanted to be there. The hazel eyes Simon had inherited were kind and warm, and her long, golden hair gracefully sculpted into a braid so intricate that it belied almost plausibility.

Rather than a lavish gown, she wore a dress augmented with pieces of elegant but still sturdy-looking armor, looking a combination of both regal monarch as well as fiercely inspiring warrior queen.  It had been said by many and often that there had been a spark of the Goddess about Glenwoad’s beloved queen.

A locket, set with an oval-cut gem of unknown origin, sparkling in every color of the rainbow, hung from her neck.  Her armor and livery was in the finest of Glenwoad colors, an exotic blade in a lacquered black scabbard clutched loosely in one hand.  Its curved, staghorn handle was reminiscent of the dual pair of such weapons hanging in his private quarters: a ‘hunting’ sword.  Black veils hung from the corners, casting some of her features in shadow.

"I was riding out in the forest," he replied eventually, tearing his eyes and mind away from the canvas.  He knew his father would not settle for anything less than the truth.  Or at least most of it.  Few who knew him would buy that it was an accident either; Simon had a reputation of being careful and clever, which was mostly why he was allowed to ride unaccompanied.  "And I got...waylaid."

"Waylaid?" Renart demanded, beard bristling.  "By who?"

"Waylaid by warriors, a ways and away..." hummed Isaac nearby to the tune of an old folksong.  Their father flashed his youngest son a single look that quelled his musical musings.

"A bandit," Simon answered, then held up a hand as his father looked about to roar in anger.  "I chased him off.  Told him this land has no place for ruffians, scoundrels, and the like."

"You have a black eye," the king noted gravely, leaning in closer.  "No other injuries?"

"No, father," he answered curtly, trying to balance professionalism with humor.  "It was actually more of an accident that I even got the scratch anyway. And I doubt I'll ever see that bandit again."

"You didn't kill him?"

"It hardly seemed necessary."

His father considered that for a moment, then nodded, beaming down at him with pride.  "Then you handled yourself well.  How was Theron?"

"Strong, stubborn, and reliable as always.  I gave him sweet oats for the trouble, brushed him down, and had the servants read him a story.  Like you always ask."

King Renart beamed ever wider.  "Excellent!"  He turned and took two steps away, whirled back to face them, and then gestured for them to sit.  They did so, each taking their personal chair and turning to face their father directly.  The king himself remained standing, leaning his burly, unwrapped arm against the hearth and scowling into the fire.  

"A bandit..." he growled.  "I should have expected as much.  What with the Tournament looming, folk will be coming from all over to try their hand.  Rogues, barbarians, gladiators, and mercenaries always crop up at these events, determined to prove themselves without a lick of respect for laws and order.  The kingdom will be in anarchy for weeks..."  He stroked his beard.  "Maybe we should send guards to watch over the roads..."

"Then how will we have enough to spare to escort the nobles?" asked Vincent wisely, and the king sighed.

"True.  No need to invite more trouble.  And they'll be expecting my protection anyway."  King Renart grumbled a bit and took his own seat in his massive armchair in front of the fire.  He leaned forwards, eyeing them all over steepled fingers.  "Applications?" he less asked than demanded, holding out his hand.  

As one, the other three withdrew parchments from their coats, tunics, or doublets and handed them over.  He shuffled through them, putting on a small pair of reading glasses that he kept hidden in his shirt pocket.  He cleared his throat.  

"Cole," he began gravely, addressing the first-born. 

Cole sat up straighter.

"It says here," continued Renart.  "That you wish to be a judge in the joust, and a stand-in for any champion who cannot afford or tilt the lance.  Of course you also may choose an appropriate stand-in for any knight or participant who cannot ride."  Cole nodded firmly.  "Very good.  All perfectly legal.  However..." he cast an eye down the parchment further.  "I'm afraid that you cannot enter the Masquerade Brawl.  I am sorry, my boy, but there's just no point.  Fighting just to fight is useless, and if you were discovered, you'd be disbarred for the next five years.  That arena is for Tournament placements and the commoners to attempt to change their fortunes."

Cole shrugged his broad shoulders.  "I only put that on there because I didn't have three activities to list.  I would be fine officiating as the need arises."  

"There will most assuredly be a need," their father rumbled.  He said nothing else, only making them all glance at him worriedly.

"You're not staying," observed Vincent without sounding at all surprised.

"I’m afraid I cannot.  Though our kingdom may be hosting this year, my duties to our lands supersede my involvement in such martial frivolities."

"I also did attach a request to sponsor this year," added Cole, trying to steer the conversation away from their father's usual deflecting and surly silences when questioned about his private affairs.

"I see that!" the king replied, smiling as if the conversation had not briefly dipped to the uncomfortable.  "A wise choice.  Any suggestions?  I can't directly do so, King's bias you know, but I'd happily look at any applicants you have.  There will be much you and I speak of as we draw closer to the day."

"I..." Cole started to say, then hesitated.  "Well...I'll wait on that one, father, until we've all spoken. I am still wholly undecided on the matter."

"Fair enough," complimented Renart, bowing his head to his oldest son.  "But perhaps I can do you one better.  Glenwoad has need of a Hornblower for the Brawl itself.  Events...as they are require my attention to be elsewhere."

Cole's eyes, and indeed all of theirs, went wide.  "You will not even head the Tournament's onset?" he asked, voice soft and wary.  "What else could be so important, father?"

All the other boys winced as their father was directly challenged.

Renart for his part withdrew into himself slightly, craggy brows casting his one good eye in shadow.  "When you get to be my age, Cole, you will learn that the world is not all warhorses and tournament lists.  Challenging times lay ahead of us all, and my only wish is for that all of you may be ready for when they come.  You will all be the Princes of Glenwoad that I know you to be."  He cast one eye across the rest of his present children.

All of them nodded somberly.

"Now.  Vincent," Renart shuffled to the next piece of parchment.  "A crier, and a judge!" he waved the papers at his second eldest approvingly.  "Though, you failed to list the contests, however."

"That was intentional, Father," supplied Vincent smoothly.  "As there will be many civilian crier applications.  I'll happily take whatever field is left vacant and unassigned, but I would be very grateful for a judge's seat in the fencing competition.  If I can't compete, then at least I can make sure of no foul play in my favorite division."  He and their father shared a conspiratorial wink.  "Besides, maybe I can knock Teffwart or Miserly out of the contest fast and save us all an hour."

"Oh gods," sighed the king and they all rolled their eyes.  "I've never seen people actually falling asleep in the grand tournament before that year.  The one time I stay to watch..."

"And the fight wasn't even that good!" added Isaac indignantly.

“Nothing but a bunch of speeches and posturing,” Cole nodded conspiratorially.

"They could train for five years and not improve," inserted Vincent.

Simon let his family bluster on in their way, comparing past competitors like they were warhorses, or swords, or sometimes warhorses and swords.  It was almost like a family game of theirs, one he was sadly unskilled in and thus could not contribute.  This also meant missing a lot of context behind said jokes they would make.  All the names they used were Personas as well, leaving him only more in the dark.

Anytime they would try and involve him as an afterthought it would be much the same conversation in every instance:  “Who was your favorite, Simon?” or “Do you remember that one time…?”  Then they would remember the obvious and sheepishly return to speaking to one another.  He wouldn’t have minded if he could at least have napped while they gabbed, but there was none of that allowed around their father.

"In any case father,” Vincent finally relented, all of them save Simon wiping tears of laughter from their eyes. “I have no wish to sponsor this year.  The negotiations and paperwork bore me, and I'd rather spend the time getting to know the neighbors' daughters."  He shrugged as heavy scoffs rang around the room.  Vincent seemed to pay the disparaging sounds and looks he received no mind.  "Now...if the women's division were to need overseeing this year..." his eyes sparkled.

His lecherous grin earned him only a stern chop onto the top of his head from Renart, the old man's temple twitching.  "This is serious business, Vincent," he chastised as the dark-haired man whined and rubbed at his skull.  "Your sister is heading up that division personally.  You would be welcome to sit in her booth though."  His single working eye gleamed ominously from its deep cave beneath his burly brows. They all cast a dark grin towards the now furiously sweating Vincent.

"Err...on second thought!" was his quick amendment.  "Just what I've listed, father.  Oh, and of course, as Cole did, I would wish to stand as First Sword for Glenwoad if our honor is directly challenged."  He sat up proudly then, every inch as Gallant as his name.

"Acknowledged," Renart stated proudly.  "Normally, as host, first sword is mine.  I'll take your request into consideration though and add it to the list of stand-ins.  You'll have to arrange such details with the currently listed knights and swordsmen, not to mention Legrande."  

Mention of the Gilded Blade made Vincent grind his teeth noticeably.  Simon hid his secret grin behind a scratch to his nose.  

"Not that a second offense would be likely," Renart chuckled as he continued and then crossed his arms smugly.  "One look at your warrior poppa and all other would-be offenders will tuck their tails."

They all laughed, and their father grimaced at them in his most impressive glower.  "Father, we know you're strong," placated Cole.

"The strongest!" Renart reprimanded proudly, his beard and mane of hair bristling.

"But don't you think, after the last campaign, you ought to be taking it easier?" continued Isaac.  "You don't want to have another...episode...and make Isidora worry do you?"

Renart grimaced even deeper, his fuzzy eyebrows casting his eyes in shadow.  "You don't all think..." he rumbled darkly, like thunderclouds on the horizon about to burst forth, making them all shrink back a bit.  The next second he had begun bawling openly, tears leaking down his bearded face from his one good eye.  

The Princes all laughed, used to his over-the-top and often overblown emotional displays.

"You don't think that your poppa is some frail, old man do you?!"  He sank his face down into his bandaged, pounding the arm of his chair loudly with the other.  "My own children!  Such little faith!  Such cruelty to their own poppa!" he wailed.

"There, there," Isaac was quick to console him, standing up and patting their father's back.  "We know you're the most ferocious warrior in all the lands."

"Even if you never talk about the campaigns," muttered Cole.

Vincent also added underneath his breath, "Or cry at the drop of a hat."

"You boys need to be taught some respect, whispering about your father like that," Renart thundered, having switched moods yet again and looming above them all somehow without standing up.  

He was really a giant of a man, almost like a man squashed into a Glenwoad surcoat sized for a child, seams often struggling to contain him.  His arms bulged beneath his sleeves and his beard almost seemed to grow longer from sheer testosterone.  They quailed, the two oldest stammering excuses before he pointed at each of them condemningly.  "Fifty!" he cried and they groaned.

Standing up from their chairs glumly, Cole and Vincent took positions alongside the king's chair - faces already haggard - and squatted down, arms held forwards and fingers fully extended. They faced one another almost like they were about to begin a dance.  

"Who's the greatest king in all the land?" they asked, voices disheartened.  They squatted down lower, legs going into nearly perfect 90-degree angles, before they shot back up, threw themselves to the ground, and did a pushup.  As they rose, they leaped back to their feet, squatted again, and continued.  "Renart. Renart. Renart Arthurias Emmery Tarthan!"  And on they went, chanting praises of their puffed-up father.

Nodding with satisfaction, Renart looked away from the pair of them, both already sweating heavily, and eyed Isaac.  "I don't see many submissions from you, Isaac my boy," he noted.  "Have you not decided to contribute this year?  What else would you do during this, our biggest event in ten years?"

"Well, father," Isaac began sagely.  "I can't stand to be a judge of the Masquerade Brawl, or the Grand Melee.  They're far too messy for my tastes.  I wouldn't be allowed to stand in for the Archery competition, everyone always complains when they have to shoot against me.  As far as crier work, I'm just lousy at that sort of thing.  Perhaps, instead I could be allowed to help plan the social events, coordinate placements, and document Patrons this year."

Glowing at his son suspiciously, Renart growled.  "Not trying to placate me, are you, my boy?"

"Of course not," Isaac assured his father smoothly.  "My sincere hopes would be to hopefully relieve certain weights off your shoulders, allow you to focus on your work so that you can come back and join us in the fun all the sooner."  That seemed to mollify their tempest of a father.  "But perhaps I would be permitted to play at the Ball as well?"

"Piano?" asked Renart, perking up a bit.

"Of course!  And Isidora could sing for me, if she likes."

"Ah," sighed the king and he leaned back in his chair.  "You two haven't done that since you were both sixteen.  I'll allow it.  There will be many bards there, but I see no reason to not allow your lovely ensemble.  You and your twin sister always made the most shining music!  And what's the point of hosting if you don't get to show off a little?!" he grinned and then turned at the drop of a hat back into his lion mode, roaring at the two on the ground.  "I don't hear you!"

His sons began to speed up, chanting and moving faster and with more energy.  "Who's the greatest king in all the land?!" they cried all the louder.

Renart huffed and blew out his beard, before he finally fixed Simon with his gaze, drawing out the parchment with his name scrawled on top.  "Sorry father," he mumbled simply as the single gleaming eye began to read.  "I didn't spend as much time on it as I should have.  I've been distracted lately and I have no real excuse."

Casting that single eye over the abysmally few, chicken-scratch lines jotted down on it, the king sighed, then smiled.  It was a warm look, but held a touch of sadness.  "I know, son, but it would do the whole family proud if we were all involved this year.  It becomes difficult to explain to the visiting nobles why even one of my beloved children is not present.  With us Hosting, I’ll like all of you attending the banquets.”

Wincing, Simon didn't meet anyone's eyes.  "I'd rather not, father," he replied warily, already aware of that steely glint in his father’s eye whenever he was being turned down.  He hastened to add,  "But, with good reason.  I don't represent us well at those events, and I worry that I just take away from the others."

The others scoffed and he rolled his eyes.  Exhaustion was truly setting in, but he did his best to refrain from becoming irritable.  His father’s brow had lowered, casting his eye in shadow.  His greying hair almost seemed like a thundercloud beginning to billow.  

"If I were to…” Simon hesitated to say, mustering up his failing nerve before he lost it.  “Compete…might I be allowed to abstain from at least a few of them?”

"Compete?" asked the king in a low voice.  Simon almost sensed danger before Renart smiled broadly.  The entire room seemed to brighten again.  "Why, this is joyous news!  You've never vested interest in the Tournament before!  Simon, my boy!"

Then he was being enveloped in yet another fatherly hug that squeezed the air from him and made his bones creak.

Even his brothers looked stunned but all eagerly latched onto the idea, staring at him with great glee and expectation open in their eyes.

Great…

“You’ve never abstained from making clear your opinions on the Tournament,” noted Cole pointedly, drawing their attention again.  “I’m not one to argue; at least one of our family is competing during our Hosting year, but why the sudden change?”

“A valid question,” concurred Vincent.  “Surely you don’t hate social gatherings so much as to consider something this strenuous and costly of time just to get out of them?  You’re always so stringent on needing your personal time.”

"Well..." Simon began, eyes growing a bit more distant.  Memories of his sleepless nights and the fight earlier surged to the forefront of his mind.  He latched onto a surface thought, desperate to not become despondent.  "Something in me just feels...like I'm…failing.”

“Preposterous,” rumbled the King.  “One of my sons, fail?  Impossible.”

Simon sighed internally at that. He wished his father understood that it was sentiments like this that made him feel worse.  “I know I'm not as social, or as presentable at parties and banquets.  I can't court to save my life.  I have no mind or patience for political games; I barely even count as a Prince.”

They were all things his family had said aloud before anyway.  More than one of his brothers winced at hearing their own words echoed back to them; whether they were aware what they’d said was unfair or hurtful, or they were regretting it becoming something that Simon thought of himself as.

“I've been happy enough to provide security before, but this year…”  His eyes slowly traveled from the distant shadow of the Gauntlet, visible through the window even in the dark, and then up above the fireplace to his Mother’s portrait.  “I wish…to try,” he managed to say, voice heavy.

A heavy hand reached out and gripped his shoulder.  "My son..." came the king's deep rumble.  "Your mother would be proud, as I am proud.  We all only wish to see you rise to your full potential."  His brothers nodded, though it seemed only somewhat clipped from Cole.  "A monumental year… The Tournament on Glenwoad lands; and of course the Gauntlet itself…”

The mood of the room quickly turned more hushed, even their father’s voice now low and reverent.

"Father?" asked Isaac then.  "What...is the Gauntlet?  Why is it so important?  If the scribes are accurate in their estimations, the competition won't even be concluded in time for the solstice."

King Renart paused, meaningfully, and stood.  He faced the fire grimly.  "The Gauntlet..." he started to say, speaking softer but no less audible.  "Is a test.  A test to see that our most sacred of ideals are upheld by the knights of our Ten realms, most especially their Princes.  Our royal lines have ever been descended from the lines of great Tournament champions.  From the first chieftains and lords that founded our Ten Kingdoms beneath the Goddess’s blessing.”

The sons of Tarthan the Uniter listened on as their Father explained further.

“So it has been for generations.  It is not just a contest of martial prowess, skill of arms, or a question of your worth: it is a holy rite.  Those who undertake it must pass all sorts of trials set in place by ancient laws and the will of the Goddess herself.  Failure is not unexpected, for it is not a test of knowledge or talent, but of character.  Only the most worthy, those pure of heart, those who keep closest to their hearts the tenets of Chivalry, may pass the Gauntlet and emerge victoriously.  Many who have undertaken the climb sometimes do not ever return."

"Why do it at all then?" asked Cole, echoing many of their thoughts.  "Why participate or take part in a test with no judge, and no true way to pass?  If it's as dangerous as you say, even for the sake of tradition, why undertake it at all?"

"Glenwoad is the land of the Crowning Oak, first among the Ten Kingdoms," declared Renart proudly.  "Legend says that the Goddess herself chose this land beneath the Gauntlet when she led our ancestors here.  She carved out the rivers, rose up the forests, tamed the wild tribes that dwelled here. When her rest finally came, it was there, upon that mountain, where she took up her ever-lasting duty.  She watches over our fledgling people to this day.  It remains as our test, the ultimate test, to ensure that the first and proudest of the Ten Kingdoms birthed by her mercy remain guided and led by those who espoused her teachings most."

"The Gauntlet..." he touched the scar over his milky-white eye.  "Brings out the side of you that you keep hidden from the world.  A victory in the Tournament, the Ten-Games, or even the Grand Melee steels you for battle and adversity.  Nonetheless, those battles pale in comparison to the sights you will experience after even only scaling halfway up the mountain.  Those you must face alone, save for the blessed company you most trust.

“And if we…fail?” asked Cole, voicing a concern shared amongst all of them.  “Are we…not worthy of being Princes?  Of…inheriting the throne?”  There was a shuffle from Vincent and Isaac, both of them casting their eldest brother a look, ranging from disapproving to secretly concerned.  Simon felt a mixture of both, but for his own reasons.

“Cole,” rumbled Renart.  Then he abruptly beamed and hammered his fist against his chest, producing a thud that was physically felt by all.  “Would you say that I am not worthy?"

“Of course not!” his oldest son protested vehemently.  “You’re the strongest of all ten Realms!”

“Strength…” Renart let the word out in a long sigh, deflating only slightly before them. “Strength does not replace character, my son.  Your father was once but a Prince.  Back then, all I had and aspired to be was a warrior, to live up to my father’s legacy.  True, I had no brothers to compete against, but my foolish belief was that strength was all that was needed.  My trials atop the Gauntlet…convinced me otherwise.  I was made aware of the true strength I would need when it came finally time to challenge my sire for his throne.”

That admission made all of them cast their gazes out of the solitary window in the room.  There, in the distance and still visible through the gloom and mist of Glenwoad's night, the Gauntlet stood, implacable as ever.  A chill crept through them all, each averting their eyes one at a time.  

Simon's were last to leave the sight of the Gauntlet but only by a split second longer.  Even now, he felt like someone, or something, was constantly staring back at him whenever his eyes strayed towards its ominous shape.  How could anything so transformative dwell in such a forbidding-looking place?

Renart Emmery turned to face them all, arms crossed behind his back.  "My sons..." he voiced, speaking in a tone of voice not often heard by any.  "Your mother would have loved to see the men that all of you grew up to be."  The graying-haired king looked away, memories making his eye mist again.

"You...still never told us what happened to her," noted Vincent softly.  It was a tender subject, and not one they broached without need.  The pain of it all sometimes could send the king into a rage, or else a stupor that took weeks to recover from.

"I wanted to spare you," Renart murmured hollowly.  "All of you, from..." he again touched his scarred face, and then lifted his hand to reach within his doublet to pull out a pendant.  It was nearly identical to the locket from the portrait, although this one was missing the carved gem set into the front.  He thumbed one thick digit across the scuffed, charred-looking surface before he stuffed it away.  

"I know that I do not speak of my past save for my conquests.  While with others I boast and brag, it is with family that I wish to be remembered differently.  My wars, my hatreds, my loss; they are another life.  And what life I have left I wanted to give to you boys, and your sister; a happy one, a world free of my griefs and faults.  There will come a day of reckoning, and on that day, I want you all to be as strong as possible."

Simon took a while to respond, knowing that this was all because of him.  "I...want to make you proud, father.  To make her proud.  I'll...join.”

The others all let out triumphant cheers, even louder than those before without an indignant feline to censor them.  Cole and Vincent clasped hands, Isaac clapped excitedly, but it was their father who’s reaction Simon was waiting for.

Renart wiped his eye and then faced Simon directly again.  "Think hard on it son," he warned.  "But I will always be proud of you, even if I don't understand you.  I don't pretend to understand any of you, as you've never been given the chance to understand me."  He guffawed then.  "The Masquerade Brawl is a month away, and we have much to prepare.  I can at least spare you that unpleasant event."  His eye gleamed eagerly then, making Simon abruptly worry.  “We can present Glenwoad as mighty as can be, a proud son of Tarthan standing before the assembled lands as our official representative in the Ten-.”

"No," Simon voiced suddenly, making them all jump.

“No?” rumbled Renart, not looking pleased at being cut off.  “Are you saying you wish to compete…Unaligned?”

Nobody else spoke.  All of their eyes showed varying degrees of concern, wary or otherwise.

"No, father,” he answered dutifully.  “My heart and swords will only ever fight for the Crowning Oak and the Goddess.”

Renart seemed mollified by that, as did Simon’s siblings.  The king gestured for him to continue.

“I won't be given special treatment, nor will I depend on my station to safeguard me," Simon growled determinedly.  "I’m entering the Brawl."

They all made ready to protest, save Renart who looked upon his son with inscrutable light in his one good eye.

"It is tradition!" he protested loudly, cutting off his brothers’ concerns or objections.  "Any first time attendees of the Ten-Games must enlist in the Masquerade Brawl upon their first year.”

“That rule hasn’t been enforced in three generations,” Cole shot back but their Father quieted all their protestations with a single crossing of his arms.

“Continue, Simon,” he commanded.

Simon did.  “I have no previous ranks to draw on for the Tournament as I’ve never competed. I would have no accolades, and were I to cling to the protection and guaranteed placement as per my birth grants, there would be claims of favoritism, at the least.  It is only right and honorable that I start the same way all contestants do."

"So you're just going to ruck it with the common folk?" asked Cole, voice incredulous.

"What's so wrong with commoners?" Simon countered.  "I sleep alongside the troops when on campaign, same as you.  One of the best things you ever did for us, Father, was making sure officers and soldiers shared the same hardships as much as possible.  It's saved us more times than we can count, and earned us the loyalty of our people, too."  

Renart swelled just a bit more than he already had.

"Well...sure..." muttered his eldest brother.  "But they're so...common."

"What Cole means," interrupted Vincent, giving his older sibling a flat look that made the large young man grumble darkly.  The eldest son nonetheless flinched at a similar dangerous glance from their father.  "Is that this isn't a campaign.  Vrangling trench-runners aren’t lurking around to slit your throat while you sleep.”

Simon withheld comment on that; to tell them of not-too unsimilar incidents he’d encountered during his time protecting the attendees of past tournaments would only make them all worry worse.

“These aren't just soldiers either, Simon.  The Masquerade Brawl is open to all who wish to enlist and participate.  That includes even the unsavory types and foreigners: sell-swords and the like."

"Lucky for me, I'm an unsavory Prince."

That earned him a few rueful chuckles, even if there were also some gleams of disagreement evident in more than one pair of eyes.  Vincent rolled his indigo orbs before continuing.  "Laugh all you want, Simon, but I know you're not a fool.  The Brawl is notoriously dangerous."

"Not exactly the place for royalty," added Cole smugly.

“You were just saying how much you enjoyed it,” Isaac was not above pointing out.

“When you’re used to it!” he shot back.  “Simon, you probably know more about it than the other two, if only from your experience working behind the scenes.  But the Brawl isn’t just some coordinated contest; it’s high-stakes combat with chaos as your only guarantee.”

"To be fair, brothers," came Isaac's ever constant note of contention to add a new perspective.  "Even if you say that, it's not like Princes and other nobles don't enter the Masquerade every single year.  It provides us with a great bonding experience with our subjects."

"Then how come you've never entered?"

"Because, Cole, I'd much rather spend my time in other, less physically demanding ventures," he quipped back.  "I'm not a swordsman, weapon master, or otherwise Brawler-material like the rest of you.  Archery speaks to me for the sheer dedication to accuracy and foresight that goes into every factor.  A sword can be blunted but an arrow can be deadly, even if it lacks the steelhead."  He then smirked.  "Besides, it's also far more rewarding when people gasp and cheer after your arrow hits a previously thought impossible mark than posing in the Arena."

“Speak for yourself,” grumbled the eldest Tarthan boy.

"Also you have to sleep on the ground," chuckled Vincent.

Isaac made a face.  "Also yes.  That."

"Earth is good for the soul and the body," rumbled Renart, openly grinning at his four sons.  They all seemed ready to continue debating before their father waved a hand, silencing them efficiently with that single motion.  "Simon," he spoke seriously and then smiled ever wider, eye gleaming.  "I support your wishes.  I remember many fond memories of the few times I entered the Brawl, friends I made, battles and events I fought in, and the satisfaction of knowing my rankings in the Games were on my own merits.  Your efforts would do the Goddess Companions proud."

Simon felt something swelling inside of him that he wasn't as used to feeling.  His eyes felt misty and he blinked several times while taking a deep breath in.  "Thank you, father," he murmured just loud enough to be heard. 

Renart bowed his head slightly in response before he leaned forward in his chair towards him specifically.  Firelight from the hearth gleamed off of his single working eye and silver-laced hair.  "Your aspirations for potential glory and valor speak much but it begs a question you've long avoided.  By wanting to so openly compete in the eyes of the Ten Kingdoms, does this mean that you would vye in the Gauntlet?"  

That made the others perk up, eyeing him differently now.

Simon took a long moment to contemplate such a question.  For years, he had indeed done everything within his power to skirt around the true weight and duty imposed upon him by his station.  Ordinarily, he would have refused point blank, but, casting an eye out toward the Gauntlet, again feeling that sense of being watched and a bone-deep shiver sweeping through him, he heard himself speak.  

"Not to take it away from the others or to disparage their skills and dedication to our homeland," he supplied carefully.  "Any of them would be a good king.  But I love this land of ours.  Its people, its animals, its roads and forests; I love them all.  And what kind of Prince would I be if I did not try and earn my place to defend them?  Perhaps I still might fail, and if the others make it farther than I do, then that's destiny.  I will honor our history."

The others smiled, his brothers nodding although their expressions spoke of many hidden thoughts as they mulled over his words.  Renart wiped another fresh tear from his eye.  

Cole spoke up then.  "But you will still fight for Glenwoad,” he stated, not even bothering to ask.  Simon, of course, nodded as he confirmed this again.  “Then, Father, I know who I wish to give patronage to."  Their eyes turned to him and the oldest son of the Tarthan line proudly beamed.  "I submit my patronage to Simon.  Compete as fairly and equal as he might, but he will always be my brother.  No one will ever question our family's bond, nor our valor.  What victories he wins for himself he also wins for Glenwoad."

They all looked stunned.  Patronage was a grand rite, not to boost the fame of the patron but to personally protect the competitor.  Representation in civic disputes, a voice to speak for him to coordinate duels and events, providing or finding a second should it be required.  

It was forbidden that money be exchanged at the Tournament after its onset; the only revenue accepted were those won by the efforts of its competitors.  Cole was staking his own reputation at the games for the sake of Simon’s victories yet to come.  Elimination would mean a black mark upon not only his honor but Cole’s as well.

It was an enormous risk. Simon was forced to once again admit, that while his older brother may have appeared like a typical, macho-headed brute, Cole was a canny and cunning man when he set his mind to it.  There was an angle there that Simon didn't yet know how to figure out.  Or perhaps that was just his natural pessimism at play.  Regardless, he met his brother's eye, and both bowed their heads.

“But how is that not favoritism or subject to roster-boosting?” argued Vincent, as ever was his nature.  “Isn’t it considered bad taste for the hosting Kingdom to offer Patronage?”

“Simple,” Cole replied confidently.  In all things Ten-Games, Cole’s expertise and intricate knowledge of the bylaws was trusted.  “Anyone who takes Glenwoad’s colors would be vying for the same; ordinarily we would have to wait, but among our loyalists we would have the first pick of any applicants by tradition.  As a first time Brawler, Simon’s Masquerade persona will be entirely unknown. Thus, the subject of my Patronage.”

“Assuming that he does well,” interjected Vincent.

Isaac rolled his eyes.  “This is Simon we’re talking about.  Two-Sword Tarthan, remember?”  He grinned, flashing Simon a wink to which he scowled, face a little more flushed at the ridiculous nickname.  The battle where he had won it had been over two-years ago and still no-one had let him live down the way the whole army had roared the title upon their victory.  At least they weren’t still mock-chanting it at him down the hallways.

“That’s going to be a problem as well,” Vincent shot right back.  Everyone gave him a sigh but turned to listen to his words.  “Simon, what weapons are you going to compete with?”

“Glenwoad cavalry sword,” he replied simply.  “It’s going to be the favorite of the tournament anyway.  It has length, speed, is heavy in hand, and every part of it can be used offensively or defensively.”

The entire family sighed as if relieved.  “Nevermind then!” Vincent chuckled.  “Here I was worried about you insisting on those ugly cleavers of yours or something similar.”

“They’re hunting-swords,” Simon grumbled defensively.

“They’re experimental,” rumbled Renart.  “I’ve never much approved of your using them as your premier weapons.”  Then the King shrugged.  “Then again, reputations earned on campaign are not subject to hearsay like Tournament ones.  It honors us that you would wield our Kingdom’s signature sword.”

Cole cleared his throat respectfully and they all returned to listening to his explanation concerning Patronage.  “By the time the Brawl is concluded, Simon will have earned his own prestige and procession of accolades.  Naming him as a champion fighting for Glenwoad prior based on his performances will only make our realm look better, not to mention cause for a great dramatic reveal amongst the nobles.”

“I like that!” guffawed their father.  “A well-orchestrated and rehearsed Persona.”

“He’ll earn the hearts and minds of everyone watching,” Isaac added eagerly.

“No one will be able to claim he did not earn his place among our royal line,” was Vincent’s contribution, casting Simon a warm glance.

Gee, and here I thought the Persona was up to the Brawler…

While the others all nodded empathically, seeming pleased by this clever manipulation of the rules, Simon could not help but feel a touch wary. He would have to be strict on how much influence they attempted to gain over him during the first events.

"So be it," voiced Renart proudly, cutting through the excited banter.  "Family stands with family.  The Goddess protects and the Gauntlet chooses."

The four of them bowed their heads in response, clenching fist to chest solemnly as they repeated the kingdom mantra.  "The Gauntlet chooses."

"Simon," continued Renart.  "I will place your name in the Masquerade Brawl, and commission a helmet once we’ve finalized your Persona.  For better or worse, you're every bit worthy of the Tarthan name.  Make me proud, son."

Simon swallowed past a lump in his throat and wordlessly nodded at their father.  

The King looked then upon his sons as a whole, settling back into his padded chair.  "Such a thing has not been attempted in years.  Simon’s will be as legendary as one of decades past, before any of you were born.  A warrior, unnamed and unadorned, entered into the Tournament on these very lands. They began in the Masquerade Brawl, won placement and ranking, and competed in every event.  No matter the competition, this knight excelled. Award after award was won, climbing heights every higher, all without Patronage."

They all stared, rapturously, eager to hear this tale.  Renart - while being a man all too fond of the dramatic - was not usually a man of grand words or lofty speeches.  Simon could almost see this faceless warrior, striving for the greatest achievements possible, fighting, winning, moving ever forwards.

"At last came the summit of the Ten-Games: the Grand Melee.  It was there the true stakes of this Tournament were laid bare.  By right of final victory and before named Tournament Champion," Renart paused grandly.  "The victor could demand one final challenge...a duel for the crown."  

The boys suitably gasped, only partly through humoring their father. 

 "This tradition goes back to the founding of the Tournament; never freely given is a Crown touched by the Goddess, but earned through valor in glorious reward.  As was his right, the King of that time requested that should he emerge victoriously that the challenger would give unto the sovereign a bride of their own line, so that their lineages could mix and the royal family be ever strengthened in the eyes of the Goddess.

"In exchange, if the challenger won, they would replace the King and rule until they were defeated in the same way.  The bond was struck, and at the very zenith of the Melee, two contestants alone remained: a Prince and the faceless knight of great acclaim.  The victor would go on to challenge the King."  He stood proudly, chest out, arms crossed, and beard flowing magnificently.  His eyes glowed almost in the firelight.  "And do you know how it ended?"

They all smiled, sharing a suspicion.  "Was the mystery knight victorious?"

Renart laughed, so loudly that the room echoed.  "Goddess no, but it was a close one.  Their duel was the stuff of legends, spoken of in hushed whispers after for the ferocity, speed, and grace they commanded.  It was less a battle and more of a dance, so say the bards.  After it had concluded and the Prince named victor by a single blow amongst dozens, the knight was commanded to remove their helmet.  Imagine their surprise when this mysterious would-be champion was revealed to be… a woman.”

This time, the wide eyes around the room were utterly genuine.  

“The king, the Prince, all who looked upon her fell deeply and immediately in love.  In the final duel, the Prince challenged the King and defeated him, and the two warriors were wed shortly after.  Their lands flourished as they never had before, ending a despot's reign and ushering in a new age of prosperity.  The Tarthan line was strengthened ever more, and that, my boys..." his voice dropped to a glowing murmur.  "Was how I met your mother."

Their eyes all went to her portrait once more.  Tears glowed in their eyes.

"And this!" he roared then, pointing at his sons.  "You are proof of this!  Sons of the greatest king in the lands, and two of the greatest warriors ever known to the Tournament.  This is the legacy of Tarthan of Glenwoad; of Renart, first of his name!  Oh yes, and his very important children who all would go on to outshine him."  He uttered this last part as if airily passing it off as not very important before he roared with laughter, and they all stood.  The five of them embraced.  

"Now then," Their father's voice was glowing with pride.  "Let's all go get some dinner!"  His vast arms encircled them all as easily as they had when they were children, and he led them all to the dining hall, bellowing for the servants to put together a late meal.

Dinner was grand, and they all laughed and joked together with their father and the staff more than they had in a long time.  There wasn't even one food fight.  Ordinarily, he would have stayed after to help clean up, but he was so tired by the end that he had nearly fallen asleep in his chair.  He had not been the only one: Renart had still been snoring like a bear when Simon and his brothers began excusing themselves.

He went to bed that night, sleepy and mostly satisfied.  Images of tournament lists, jousts, faceless helms all assembled as silent as graves, danced through his head.  He wanted to imagine the story his father had told them again, see it for real in his dreams.  It was not to be.  That same nightmare greeted him.

This night, it began in the study, his hazel eyes gazing up at his mother's portrait.  He only had vague memories of her at best.  The more he stared at her expression upon the canvas, the more the image bled into the vision he knew would be coming.

As always, he saw the inside of a tower, peering through a half-open iron-shod door.  His mother faced a hole torn in the ceiling, arms stretched out wide, dressed in a white gown that was sooty and torn.  She seemed to be shielding him.  Baleful eyes gazed down at her, at them both, from the dark stormy sky, visible through the huge gaping hole in the roof.

“You will not harm them!” she pleaded, or perhaps commanded.  Somehow it didn’t sound like any words or language he’d ever heard his mother speak before.  The monster roared and the sound was like a thousand gales all at once.  It caused him to scream, trying to shut his ears to the cacophony.  

Queen Katrin Alsight Tarthan looked back at him as lightning flashed above, half illuminating the monstrous shape.  Her eyes, his eyes, remained fixed on his.  In years prior, she’d been able to always tell on the rare occasions that even young Simon lied or did something he wasn’t supposed to, just by looking into his eyes.  No matter how he tried to look away, no man could have looked away willingly from her.

The very image of commanding yet loving, stern yet fair, patient and poised yet wrathful as a storm at sea.  Her ire could cow dozens; her smile could inspire hundreds more.  Yet, in her eyes, in the dream so lifelike that every detail seemed imprinted on his brain, Simon saw something he never had before: Katrin was scared.

She cried out, always the same words, holding her hand out towards him as if to keep him from running to her:  "Don't be afraid darling, never be afraid.  Mother is right here, and I always will be.  I love you, my Simon, my little Hunter."

The creature high above roared again, a terrible sound that shook him even now; it promised the end of the world as he knew it.  Down it descended, crashing through the remains of the roof, bringing the storm with it.  His mother screamed, her voice growing louder and louder as if in challenge or defiance of the nightmare beast reaching out with claws of shadow to snare her.  Higher and higher her clarion voice echoed, rebounding from the walls of the tower over and over again until it had become deafening.  Just as the creature reached for her, she vanished in a blast of blinding golden light and heat, taking half of the building with her.  

And then she was gone.  The beast, the tower, everything else too.

Again, he saw the mountain as a bird sailing upon the zephyrs, racing up its intimidating, black stone slopes and hidden climbs towards the peak.  Ever upwards he soared, towards the rounded top, like a half curled hand of rock, that gave the Gauntlet its name.

There his flight ended, alighting where what would have been the wrist.  A shallow pool of still water rested, ringed by flowers that produced their own light, a sword planted in the ground amongst them.  A young woman with long hair in clothing of all gold, glowing as if lit from within, knelt there as if in prayer.  She responded not at all to his words when he called out to her; he could draw no nearer than he was to touch or alert her.

Beyond was a cave cast in shadow by those craggy fingers high above, almost like a gigantic maw ringed by great fangs of stone.  A pair of eyes glowed balefully within, looking out upon him and all the world with something not unlike hate but endlessly more alien.  Then that gaze alighted on the girl; Simon knew he had to protect her.  Try as he might, he could not force his feet even one step closer, but he never stopped trying as one again that giant claw of shadow began to reach out.

Powerless, Simon yelled to warn the creature away but what came out of his mouth was instead not words but a soundless roar.  Again those eyes fixed upon him.  It roared back; the light from outside the cave cast dagger gleams on row upon row of sharpened fangs, each as long as the blade of the sword unmoving in the garden.  Wind rushed out of the cave as if part of that roar, blowing him back and off the mountain top to spiral off into the sky as a windtorn leaf.

Only when he reached the highest heavens did he slow, hover, and finally, he fell. 

Wind rushed past him as he hurtled towards the earth.  He saw Glenwoad castle in the distance, radiant and everstrong.  Beyond were the forests, his people, all that he loved now cowering beneath the spread of massive wings that shrouded the world all in darkness.  Sun and moon became one, like a great lidless glowing eye, and from that divine orb fell a tear of blood.  It descended upon the lands below, washing it all away in a tide of red.  Hands and weapons lifted from that sea of gore, raising towards his falling shape.

There were faces in the crimson tide as well, faces that would haunt him forever: a man with his skull stoved in by a hoof, another with an arrow through the visor of a foreign helm, yet more and more of eyes and faces that howled for him to join them.  Most prominent among them was a regal yet savage face, adorned with scars from temple to opposite chin as if clawed by some great beast.  His neck was cloven open on the side but his eyes hid a haunting melancholy as he watched Simon’s descent; that man alone did not reach out for him.

As always, right before he struck the earth and ocean of red so far below, he jerked awake.   Tears trickled down his cheeks silently even as his heart hammered as hard as if it had during the battle with the Vranglings.  

'Mother,' he half-whispered aloud.  'Am I ready?'