Aglarzor

She saw fields of tall, golden wheat. The sun beat down, too much. It grew larger, angrier, and a roaring fire engulfed the feilds in a flash.

She saw white flowers, stained in blood. Puddles of water turned a burning orange, and flames overtook the flowers.

She saw herself, looking up, as legions of fishing hooks flew for her, tips glistening. Then, flames overtook again.

It had been just once she had left.

Just once she left the safety of her hideaway.

She had a guard with her, she stayed off road, she wore camouflaging attire. She should have been safe.

But no.

There she stood, facing the man she had run away from, hidden from, for so long...

She looked up at the architecture of the walls she was guided in. It had been... a long time since she was brought here. The woman looked through the fabric of her grubby hood, at the purple stain glass windows and the shadows and silhouettes of guards shifting through the many halls. She knew every pathway here, even if the last time she set foot in this place was two decades ago. Two long decades...

The doors flung open in a wild display. Marching through the door, a small armored warrior strode in with regal confidence. These halls had no lowly orcs. They were filled with black uruk guards in dutiful watch, far more disciplined than the standard orc kind. The halls were fluttering with slaves, Stout-Axe, Nurnhoth, and others. Near the end of the throne room, under a massive stain glass window, was a flight of stairs guarded by Black Numenorean elites. Atop the stairs was a throne.

A crimson and black dress was adorned on a young girl, barely eleven years of age. She was dressed like dark royalty, wearing a black crown upon her head. Her hair had grown long, neatly brushed back in curled locks. Her skin was white like snow. Her eyes were a dark gold brown. Seated upon a throne far larger than her, she held a sorcerer's scepter in her little hands, gazing out the red stain glass windows in the dark throne room belonging to her father.

She panted heavily, the sword trembling in her hands as sweat and blood dripped off her. The nine year old had never been in so much pain in her life. She looked up, her father shook his head in that calm cold disappointment. "Most of the blood on your body is your own. Child, you need to learn to be ruthless."

Eira had been shocked when Demlemoth told her of a shocking intel: her father, Aglarzor, had a son.

The torches of the black room illuminated them, on the steps to his throne. The Black Numenorean Lord, powerful and mighty, held a scrawny woman in heavy robes. He was tender in his embrace, soft and kind. She was his willing captive, fallen into his arms. The torches flickered as they stood in solitude. No one was here to see him weak, and to see him be weak with a slave. A high ranking, well off slave, but still a slave.

He asked her the same question once again.