Brush's Tale

In my early years, I was an outcast, and today I am just as lonely, but, in-between, is the story of my life. I have always been of good temper and, even as hated as I was, I found it impossible to say no to those in need. I offered my assistance to anyone who asked and even those who were too proud to. In time, my name became known throughout the land and now I have taken refuge in this old monastery to finish out my days at peace.
Oh, but don't get the wrong impression. I am not quite past my prime. I've still got some time left and I can pull my own weight. I'm writing this all so that, one day, someone can know the truth. I have a son, and although he has gone his way in this world, I still think of him. Then, I think of all the hardship that having me as a father must bring him. It must be so hard when everyone expects you to be one thing and what you are is quite another. I should know…

My name is Brush Tail. That must strike you as a pretty funny thing to call my self. After all, brushtail is a derogatory term for my people. I am a wolf, though not exactly…
I was born on one cold winter day, many years ago. I never knew my mother and only came to know my father at the very end of his life. I held his hand as he left this world, and administered his last rights. It was the least I could do after I stabbed him through the heart.
You see, my father, the true patriarch of this blood line, was known as Blacktail the Cruel. He was a pirate, and the worst sort, at that. My mother was not his willing spouse and she fled from his captivity on the very night of my birth.
The next morning, a fox by the name of Scott Burner came across a most sorrowful sight. As weak as she was, having been starved and forced into servitude by her wicked husband, my mother stood no chance of surviving on her own. Giving birth to me had taken so much of her strength; she passed away in the night. Her body sheltered me from the harsh winter cold and the fox was stunned to find me clinging to life.
Of course, I have no recollection of those early days. I was told the truth on my tenth birthday. What a very sad day that was. I recall that I was coming home from chopping wood in the forest, when I saw the smoke. Bandits had staged a raid on our little settlement.
With his dieing breath, Scott told me the truth, how he had found me and raised me up right. He and his wife had taken to calling me Brush as a bit of a joke, as only they knew the name carved upon my mother's bracelet. But then they grew to love me. By then it was too late to change what always had been, and so my name it was.
That bracelet, all scuffed and battered, was more of a shackle then anything. It was meant to show a master's power over his slave rather then a husband's pledge to his wife. The fox knew nothing of this. To him, it was an iron band that was inscribed so illegibly he merely assumed Tail to be the family's name.
I had figured out that I wasn't a fox. It was plain to see, as my adoptive parents were much smaller in stature and build. Even so, I had no idea I was a wolf! Wolves in this area are mean and ill tempered. They are regarded as the horrible barbarians of the north, a fact that has made my life one of hardship and strife. You see, I'm not like them; I am the one good wolf…

I've told you this much so that you know that I was real. I lived a real life and had many people come and go about me. I wasn't just some stone faced hero whose portrait others gaze upon in adoring admiration. I laughed and, more often then not, I cried. I felt the pain of my wife's passing just as I felt the joy of my son's birth. I lived.
People expected me to be evil, because I was a wolf; because my father was a wolf. And so it is that people expect my son to be a hero, just as they think I was, but just as I was not like my father, my son need not be like me.
That's not to say that he is evil. No, not at all. My son is a good lad and he cares for those around him. But in this day where there are no villains to be slain or princesses to be rescued, I am just as happy to see him hard at work at some lesser venture. My son is but a humble innkeeper, yet I am just as proud of him as I ever could be.
I will write down many stories from my past, in hopes that someone can learn from my mistakes and take comfort in the knowledge that a life well lived has its own rewards. I hope that someone is you, my son. This is my legacy; this is my legend. This is a Knight's Tale!