An Anecdote of Abnathan Valar (Cabal TBD)

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An Anecdote of Abnathan Valar (Cabal TBD)

Postby Abnathan Valar » Sun May 02, 2010 10:54 pm

Eight years ago...

The cut was deep. Too deep.

...the thud of a young body, bleeding and beaten, broke through the treeline of the Uraln Vale. Hands rushed to pick it up, mouths whispered “the sixth son,” lips furrowed with disdain, but faithful arms bore the beaten pulp back to Harrow's Hold, where the matron scurried to guide it to pillows soft and herbs pungent.

The cut was deep. Too deep.

“He's far too hurt to get your wrathful tongue, Hrabuld!” “Attend to your others, he's my concern for now.” “Lie to yourself, but not to me, Hrabuld – he never meant anything to you.” “Really? Really, Hrabuld. I believe the word you laid on the child all those seasons ago was 'mistake', not 'beloved son' or 'our joy'.” “Yes, go. Go find those other brutish spawn you loined up before she died. I have mine to attend.”

The cut was deep. Too deep.

The bedchamber reeked of Silken Veil as she sat awake for the third night, attending to the mere child laying before her. The mere child's rapier had long been put away, cleaned by her own hands. I know what you did. His eyes reeled in the back of his head, the fourth time of the night; her hands jerked to his mouth, pulling his tongue out of his throat; her panicking wrist banged against his left canine, knocking it awry, dangling by the pulp; only specks of blood trickled out. There was precious little left to flow. I know what you did. She swore against an irrelevant suaven, bringing a poultice against the roof of his mouth, pressing the juices inside to trickle down. His quivering slowed, slowed, stopped. So much blood. So much. She collapsed back into the roughbacked chair. I know what you did.

The cut was deep. Too deep.

Fifth day - eyes fluttered, came to rest on her face.

I know what you did.

His eyebrows lifted, the crusted blood cracking and breaking. She stared for a moment, leaned forward, rested her head in her hands as she faced her firstborn.

“They didn't return.”

Her mouth quivered a bit, betraying her worry. His mouth opened to speak, but the blood ran too slow to wet his gums.

“No, no, don't. Go back to sleep.” She stroked his hair back for moments, then glanced again at the cleanly rent flesh in his side she had been bandaging for the eighteenth time; by far the worst of the wounds and by far the most betraying. Her eyes lit for a moment as she looked at him, anger flaring, but her son's closed eyes, slowing breath, unfitful sleep calmed them.

I know what you did.

The staff's tongues would cluck for a solid week at the tardiness of Count No Mwrr – a private cluck, to be sure. As the wintered count wended his way to the end of the grey-clad receiving line in front of the five hollow coffins, he lingered at the boy – having only made a cursory glance and nod at the matron. More than that, Hrabuld would not appreciate. No matter how many seasons had passed.

He stood in front of the lad, the spidery silk sprouting from his arms waving slightly in the smoldering air, the ritual braziers sending lithe currents throughout the hall. He bent down to eye level, his one good eye and eyepatch – a new ailment to this aged infirm, the clucks said – and simply looked at the boy impassively. He began to rise, but glanced quickly to the boy's left side, to his scabbard. His mouth moved, but none except the boy noticed the shape it made. He also noticed the furtive flash of red beneath the eyepatch.

Pausing, he bent down one last time, embracing in practiced grief.

“Do visit sometime,” the whisper said, “but make it soon.”

The cut was deep. Too deep.
Abnathan Valar
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Joined: Sun May 02, 2010 9:35 pm

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