» Mon Dec 09, 2013 4:55 pm Book I: On the birth of Belharza
In those days, of course, it was uncommon among the Nedic tribesmen for a male to achieve any notoriety out of the arena of combat. If he wore silks, they were woven in rings of enchantment to ward off spear and arrow; if rubies glittered at his throat, they were arrayed there by a foeman’s heart as it pounded its last frantic tattoo through iron-scarred veins. And so it was that when Belharza was born, the unhappy product of a convenient marriage, blessed Al-Esh permitted his father, who had served her well during her rebellion, to spirit him away back to the North. Perhaps, in her mercy, she thought it a kindness, a chance to win honor upon the battlefields of Skyrim. Mayhap she dreamed he would be a mercenary captain or general in the service of the High King, leading a skvadron of Nord screamers all the way to Sovngarde's gate.
But it was not to be, for his father was a troubled and paranoid man with a great many enemies both real and perceived. He kept his prize locked away in a cold fortress of wood and earth against the time when the warlord might press a claim to the Ruby Throne and sweep aside the frail woman who played at Empire there. Thus for eight years Belharza grew in isolation, thin and sickly, spoiled and sheltered, unaware of the royal blood which coursed like fire through him and sung yearning for conquest. At night, he dreamed of bleached towers reaching for the sky like mammoth-bones, webs of beaded silk criss-crossing the avenues dotted with rice-paper lanterns, and above all, a faceless woman with kind hands and a soft voice, briast aglow in sanguine royalty.
But when he asked his father about these dreams, the warlord laughed and told him his mother was a pox-ridden camp follower who had given up her only son for a horn of ale and a sack of iron coins. With his liar’s tongue he poured poisoned words into his son’s cup, and the boy drank obediently until his stomach was full and his heart was empty. And so Belharza put no more stock in these dragon’s dreams, and resigned himself to be married off to one of the daughters of his father’s thanes, as was the custom in those days for the marsh-barons of Hjaal. And in this darkness his only companions were his father’s sworn men, hoary weepers whose lowborn breath stank of wasabi and blood.
Book II: On the second birth of Man-Bull Belharza
On the eve of his ninth name-day, Belharza grew bold, and in his boldness formed a plan that would forever alter his destiny. It was customary in those days of totem-worship for gifts to be exchanged on the first nine of a child’s name days – a painting or song in the Year of the Moth, a new sword or fishing-net in the Year of the Whale, and so on.
But on the ninth year, the Year of the Dragon, tradition held that a child might ask for anything at all and receive it, were it in his guardian’s power to grant. So it was that on that fateful morning, Belharza arrayed himself in his finest furs and armor and presented himself before his father to make his demand – freedom to leave the castle as he will.
The warlord, however, was not amused by his child’s bravery. He took up his axe and dragged young Belharza out to the yard, spittle and thu’um falling from his thick tongue, demanding that he bow down and beg for succour. But to boy's eyes now flared with half-remembered royalty, and he would not bend or break. But as the Nord readied his weapon over the boy’s neck, as Belharza's honored ancestors smiled down, a shadow fell over the castle and a glorious trumpeting broke through the morning mist. A great golden form crashed down between the boy and his father, and with gore-painted horns ended the warlord’s schemes and ambitions in an august instant.
With fiery eyes, Morihaus (for indeed it was he) looked over the boy, starved for love and honor, and thus spake; “YOU ARE NO CHILD OF MINE OWN, YOU PALE-FACED BETRAYAL OF STAR-CROSSED LOVE. BUT I SMELL SOMETHING ABOUT YOU STILL, LIKE A DAWN-STREAKED DREAM OF BLOODY CRUSADE AND RESPLENDENT PASSION. YOU ARE ONLY MAN, AND I HAVE BUT A BULL’S WIT, BUT PERHAPS I CAN HELP YOU BECOME MORE THAN YOU SEEM.” And Belharza touched his snout to the boy’s forehead, and Belharza cried out as a bull’s horns sprouted from his temples, but otherwise showed no reaction but awe at the change. Morihaus looked over this work with satisfaction, and snorted, “THOUGH YOU HAVE KNOWN NO LIFE BUT THIS ONE, ‘TIS CLEAR EVEN TO I THAT YOU ARE INDEED YOUR MOTHER’S SON. SEEK OUT YOUR HALF-BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN THE HIGH LONELY PLACES OF ALD CYROD, SHOULD YOU SEEK TO CLAIM YOUR BIRTHRIGHT.” And then with a stroke of his wings Morihaus disappeared into the sky, and the marcher lords looked upon this in wonder and from the timbers of the castle built shrines upon the ground where the Breath-of-Kyne had walked in taurine nobility.
[Coming soon: Book III: On the retaking of White-Gold]
