Nimraph finishes his second cup of lavender tea, starting to feel his eyelids droop. He rises from the chair briefly to set the cup on the mantle.
He sits back down with a sigh, casting his gaze to the sleeping woman he held vigil beside.
She is beautiful…
He admitted to himself, then a frown tugged at his lips, knowing her rest was uneasy. He leans back and lets his eyes drift close for just a moment…
"What are you?"
"Your heir…"
"And what is it that you will do, boy?"
A boy, no older than thirteen looked up at the man who stood before him, "To rule and carry your legacy."
The man walked behind young Nimraph. The boy tilted his head slightly, the rustling of the blood red robes and the dull metallic thud of the man's boots gave away his location, "And how will you do it, boy?"
The footsteps stopped right behind him.
Nimraph closed his eyes and recited the words that were beaten into him, "With an iron fist and a cruel heart. With bent knee in servitude to the Dark Lord."
The man croons, "Very good, boy. Take up the sword. We will get started." The man lifts a hand, "Bring in the first prisoner."
Nimraph looks at an elegant and deadly blade on a table. He wraps his hands around the ruby encrusted hilt and lifts it up.
Two guards bring in a Hillman prisoner. The man thrashes against his bonds, screaming that he didn't do anything wrong. The prisoner froze, realizing his executioner would be a child. The hillman snarls at Nimraph's father, "You are sick! You are a sick disgusting man!" He spat at the man.
Nimraph's father cut the Hillman off with a resounding backhand with his metal gauntlet. The Hillman fell quiet, seething in anger and disgust.
Nimraph's father grabbed the tip of the sword and lifted it up, nestling it below the Hillman's collarbone, "Drag it down, all the way. You have to use a lot of force to make him bleed. That is your goal and desire as a blood-letter."
Nimraph grips the sword firmly with both hands, throwing his tiny body down into the slice. The sword sliced through cloth and flesh, the tip of the sword clattering to the floor bejeweled in drops of blood. Nimraph stares, wide eyes and pale face. He was horrified. He wanted to weep and apologize, but he knew he would be brutally punished if he showed that emotion.
Yet… he felt almost elated. The boy was never in control of anything before, but now he controlled something at least, the life of this man. He had no control over his own life. Nimraph's father picked up the sword point again, placing it at a different spot, "Again, boy."
Nimraph lost track of how many cuts he made before the prisoner was dragged off and Nimraph was ordered to clean and carry on his studies.
He remembers now, quite clearly twenty years later as an adult. It was twenty cuts exactly.
Nimraph jerks awake, instinctively reaching for his sword. He realized where he was and who he was with.
He was at The Huntsman and The Stag, he was sitting beside Eira's bedside while she slept and recovered from her rescue.
Nimraph sank back into the chair, burying his face in his hands. After a long moment, his shoulders start to tremble, the man finally letting himself weep when he couldn't as a child.
Angmar is no place for a child.
