“Hold strong men! And remember,” he shouted. The sky had been clear sun was hot that morning and he was already sweating in his armor, but the duke’s excitement only grew. Today would be a glorious battle. He savored the wind whipping through his hair “We fight today because our king would have no peace! We fight to protect our wives and our sons and daughters. We fight today because we must, may the Lords Above have mercy on us.”

Before him, the assembled knights and their armies from half the kingdom shouted back “Amen!”

Henric recognized the royal emblem on the king’s shield, leveled his lance, and charged headlong at him. The king soon recognized him as well, and brought his lance to bear. They smashed gloriously against each other, lances shattering to splinters against the other’s shield. Henric brought his horse around and drew the sword. He swung, their swords clashed, again and again. When the first fell off his the other dismounted as well and the bitter rivals continued their fight on the ground.

The Death-stench had grown powerful all around them, and it filled Henric. All around him, men spilled each other’s blood and it began to seem as though he could see the clouds of Death steaming off the blood of fallen soldiers.

The two Henrics, duke and king, were locked in mortal combat, neither willing to concede to the other. Their whole lives had been for this, to finally end the bloody conflict begun by their grandfather’s half a century ago.

He felt a sharp pain in his leg. “Ahhhg!” The knight behind him had a blue and white shield, and the tip of his sword was red with Henric’s blood. “How could you, Doryan?” He felt Doryan’s shield bash into the back of his helmet, and suddenly the ground rushed up to meet his face.

He opened his eyes to darkness. It felt like there had always been darkness, but Duke Henric remembered otherwise. He remembered the sunshine on his skin, the wind blowing through his hair, the smell of autumn rains. In this cell, there had never been sunlight, no breeze could ever blow, and the only smell was Death.

Henric had spent the first weeks of his time here spilling his guts, hardly able to keep anything down because of the smell. It didn’t come from any one place, but instead pervaded the whole of his small cell equally. He used to wonder how that was possible, but no more.

“Aldrimar”

There it was. The voice that was not a voice that sent shivers down his spine. It was the only company he had, and he hated it.

“Aldrimar. Come now, speak to me. I have something I wish to tell you.”

“No. Leave me be.”

“You know I won’t do that.”

He did. Henric had fought against it before, and each time he was punished. Still, it was better to fight, wasn’t it? He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, and he heaved.

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“You’re so stubborn Aldrimar.” It laughed, and Henric heaved again, and fell to his knees on the floor. He was lucky he hadn’t been fed for a while and his stomach was empty. “But you’re fun.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“I had something I wanted to share with you.”

“Yes? Out with it demon.”

“Demon?” It laughed. “Is that what you think I am?”

They had played this game hundreds of times before, and it had never been forthcoming with what it really was. It had only revealed its name, Draciat. “Why not?”

“If you don’t wish to guess any longer, I suppose that would do.”

“Go on, you said you had something to share?”

“Oh, I do. Though perhaps you knew. Your son is dead.”

“My... son?” He remembered the faces of his three sons the last time he had seen them. His heir Gareth, a grown man with a son of his own. Zak, just becoming a man. And young Samael crying as his father was taken away in chains. “Which son?”

But a wave of nausea washed over him, and he felt pressure building behind his eyes. Suddenly he was out in a field, wind blowing through his hair. Before them, armored men charged at each other with lances and swords. Henric recognized his own banner flying high above one group of men, watched his men rush headlong into a group loyal to the Lenese king. Horror struck him as another group of Lenes knights rode over the ridge, and smashed down on his son’s side. The fighting was over quickly and soon Henric was standing over his son, Gareth, bleeding from his side where stuck by a lance.

And in a blink he was back in the darkness of his cell. Henric felt tears running down his cheeks and cursed himself, he might have needed the fluid. “Don’t,” he began to say.

“Don’t what? Stop? If you insist, there’s plenty more.”

The nausea washed over him again. He watched as his son Zak, now a grown man stood atop castle walls hacking down each enemy that climbed up, only to take an arrow through the neck and collapse onto the ground.

"No!" shouted Henric.

The scene shifted, and we watched his youngest son, Samael sitting alone, take a sip of wine and turn purple as he choked. "Please, make it stop!“

Then it showed him a young man who he hardly a moment to recognize as his grandson, the boy Henric, before he was consumed in a great blast. "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

"This is your doom Aldrimar. The punishment for all those who bear your name."

This isn't real, Henric thought. But the visions came quicker now. A young man fell from a high wall into the sea rocks below as a baby screamed in the tower above. A man set upon by outlaws and strung up like a common poacher. One man drove his blade through another on a balcony looking out over a sprawling city below.

Henric reached his hand out, feeling for the wall he knew had to still be there. In spite of his vision, he felt the cold, rough stone of the floor beneath his fingers and followed it over to the wall. "Make it stop!“ he shouted, but the voice, Draciat only laughed.

Still more visions came, men and women died over and over before him. He did not recognize most beyond their sandy hair and green eyes of the Aldrimars. Henric slammed his head against the wall, "Make it stop!" But Draciate offered him no repreive, and so he slammed his head into the wall again. And again. He could feel the hot wet of blood running down his face. He could feel the pain numbing him, but the visions were still worse. He saw a man and his army swallowed by a black horde. It took all his effort to raise his head again, and this time he could only let it fall. He heard the crack of his own skull, and knew it would soon be over.

The visions soon began to fade. Blackness was closing in all around him and he felt very weak. Finally, thought Henric. I will be free!

As he lay there in his cell deep below the Capitol, bleeding out, dying, Duke Henric Aldrimar the Third heard one last thing from his longtime tormentor. "Farewell, Aldrimar. We shall see each other again, soon."