The boy walks without direction. He shivers, his throat burning for water that will never fall, his mind from anger that will not abate.

Betrayed, abandoned, left to die

He had held his Father in his arms, watched the crimson life pour onto the ground as the soldiers last breath fell against his bare arms.

The King had simply watched.

Laying his Father down, the boy had risen to draw his own sword. He could remember screaming as he charged the enemy at full speed, blind to who he was attacking, whether they were friend of foe. He killed, maimed, blood sprayed his face, filled his mouth with its bitter taste, and he revered it. His Father, his brothers, they would be avenged.

Others would feel their pain

“Retreat”. The King had ordered.

Retreat, if they retreat what would his Father have died for?

“Leave the dead”.

He will not be bore with honour at the pyre

“No”. The boy cried, staring defiantly at the King. He was ignored. Ignored something buffeted him from behind. Ignored by the horses that rode over him, preventing the breath from entering his body. He had passed out.

Betrayed, abandoned, left to die

His Father, his Brothers. Betrayed by the King they had pledged their life to, abandoned by the people they had sworn to protect, left to die.

The boy stumbles and falls to his knees. He is so cold, and it is so dark. He wants to just close his eyes and…he must not die, he must live on, must destroy the people that abandoned him,

He sees trees ahead. Trees mean shelter. Trees mean water.

He vows to one day kill the King who ordered his family to death.

He may be alone, he may be injured, but he is not yet beaten.

Grima Gálmód’s son will have his revenge.

Rising, he walks towards the darkness, and it envelops him.