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Downhill, not far from the grand manor, there’s a meadow full of oxeye daisies. A gentle summer breeze rustles the grass and sways the flowers, while the soft smell of clovers fills the air. Somewhere beneath the grass, little rodents scurry, stocking seeds for the winter ahead.
It’s a breathtaking view per se, but the child playing there outshines any flower in the meadow or in the garden of the manor. His pale skin is delicate as the pedals of a white Eden rose, his eyes like blue irises. His long, blonde hair reflects the sun, creating a halo on his crown.
“Husband, isn’t he pretty?” says a woman at the patio, sipping elegantly from her cup of tea.
“Indeed,” the man responds.
“The most beautiful child in the world. My son.”
The man says nothing further but casts a sulking sidelong look at his wife.
In the meadow, something has caught the attention of the little one. He tilts his pretty head, as if listening intently. For a moment, he stands completely still. Then, he begins to stalk, lurking in the long grass. He resembles a preying cat: lithe, slender, and sinewy, as he carefully advances. He is hunting something that is hiding in the grass. Suddenly, with a swift movement, he grabs something from beneath his feet.
“What is he doing?” his mother asks, intrigued.
“I don’t know. What little kids usually do,” the man answers, uninterested.
The boy has crouched beneath the hay. He’s obviously up to something, but too far for his parents to see. He stays there for a while. His innocent, excited giggling pours up from his hiding place and mingles with the summer wind. Then he gets up, looking to the garden and his parents sitting there. He runs uphill towards them, his angelic hair dancing in the air as he bounces happily. He’s holding something in his hand.
“Mommy, mommy, look what I caught!” he exclaims, raising his chubby childhood arm proudly, as he dangles the catch from its tail. It’s a field vole, brown and insignificant. The boy smiles at his mother victoriously.
“Oh darling, that was clever! Mommy’s sneaky little hunter. Come here and let me have a look at it.”
The boy hurries closer to his parents, pinning the tail of the vole between his fingers. The animal fidgets weakly.
The father stands up, face ashen. “What have you done to the poor animal?”
“I studied its body, like Mommy told. I broke its legs, one by one. I even pulled one off!” The boy looks excited. “See, Mommy? Its blood is read, just like ours. Not like the grasshoppers’.”
“Indeed. You see, voles are mammals. Humans have much in common with them. We have blood to shed, spines to break. And the most important, we feel pain. Can you see how it is suffering?”
“Yes Mommy. And it squeaked a lot when I hurt it!” An expression on the child’s face is entranced.
“Great work, my little snake. I’m so proud of you for studying the wonders of life and death. Later, you can use the knowledge you have learned today.” The mother gently caresses the golden hair of her little one.
The smile on the little cute face could be mistaken for the shining sun. The boy’s heart is filled with happiness as he basks in the love and approval of his mother. He snuggles tightly, close to her side. The vole is tossed aside, already forgotten.
“Nagaia, isn’t he too young for such games? I don’t believe it is healthy for a five-years old to…”
The woman snaps. “How dare you question my parenting! This is a part of his education. And can’t you see how happy he is! You should be a better role model for him. Try to have some ambition,” she scolds.
Then she turns back to her son, her voice filled with warmth. “Baby, don’t you care about his words. You are doing so well. We must not be soft and weak, for we are here to rule and control those below us. Will you promise me something?” she says, stroking the boy’s cheek lovingly.
“Yes, Mommy. Anything.”
She grabs his chin tightly and lifts his head to look into her eyes. Suddenly, Nagaias voice is steel. “Never become a whining wimp, like him. You must be strong. Understand?”
The boy’s blue eyes widen, but he nods.
The mother softens and releases his chin, tapping his soft baby bum. “That’s my little angel, so kind and well-raised. I love you so much. My dearest one.”
The boy relaxes and smiles again. He hides his face into the bosom of his mother, inhaling her rosy scent. She curls her fingers around his hair. “I’m so proud of you, my little viper.” The boy exhales long, contentedly.
Mommy loves him. More than anyone. More than father. The boy glances at his father, disdain on his face. The angelic face distorts into a devilish smirk, revealing his white, pointy canines. The man turns his face away to avoid eye contact. The son turns back to his mother, soaking in every drop of affection his mother shovers on him.
The sound of approaching steps cuts their cuddling short. She lifts her gaze to see a well-dressed gentleman entering their blossoming garden. Raising from her chair, she pushes the boy away.
“Adrian! What a pleasant surprise! I’m so delighted to see you here today,” the woman exclaims, rushing to welcome her visitor. The boy is tossed aside, already forgotten.
The child’s little eyebrows furrow, and his stormy eyes narrow. The child feels a cold rage rising inside him as his mother touches the arm of the unwanted visitor with an overly familiar gesture. They talk, and her voice has raised an octave. She flutters around the man, like a butterfly. The father stands behind them, passive.
“Adrian, I think we need a more private place to talk, don’t you think so?” she whispers after a moment, slipping her hand onto his arm, ready to leave.
The boy clings to the hem of his mother’s dress. “Mommy, stay! I can bring you more voles, or even a sparrow!”
Nagaia looks down at him and wrinkles her nose. “Shoo, go away. I have more important things to do than watch little children playing their stupid games.”
The chubby fingers release their grip on the silk of the dress. Nagaia walks away with Adrian, flirting and bantering lightly. She doesn’t turn to look back.
The child looks at his father, upset. His lower lip trembles, and his eyes are teary. He needs his mother. The slap on his face is unexpected and hard. “I don’t cry after her, so you won’t either. Be strong, as she told you,” the father says with a cold voice. He turns away, leaving him alone in the garden of his lost childhood.
The boy’s cheek burns from the slap, but the fire in his chest is more scorching. He trembles and clenches his little fists, sinking his nails deep into the soft skin of his palms. His eyes are frantic vortexes, a stormy sea raging in them. A messy strand of blonde hair is glued to his wet cheek. He wipes away the hot stream of tears, frustrated.
The dead vole lies nearby. It will serve one more purpose: to vent the anger of the child. The boy stomps on it aggressively. Once, twice, thrice, and more. Tiny bones crack and crunch when its soft meat yields under the angry gait of Avaric Gaunt.