NORMÌ &
CRIMSON BLOOD My father, King Thornhill, infuriated by weakness and by my act of the treason, pulled out his dagger and slashed my face. “You are not my son!” he admonished. “You will have no likeness to me!” The action was so swift, that for a minute, I did not even realize that he’d branded me. It was not until I tasted the tang of blood on my lips and saw the red liquid pool on the floor, that I became completely aware of the gash. Forcing me into a kneeing position, the King, my father, ordered one of his soldiers to tie my hands behind my back. Next, he order another soldier to tied my ankles together. I remembered by heart reverberating in my chest. I remember hearing the throbbing so aggressively in my ear, that my temples hurt. I’d seen the King, do this to prisoners of war. Slash them. Tie them. What usually came after was a slow, antagonizing torture and swift death. But what I couldn’t believe was that my father, the King, treated me like a prisoner. “Papa!” I yelled, terrified that he would do so much worse with the knife. “I am not your father!” he spat, “I am King Thornhill!” My heart galloped wildly. The blood ran down my face. Warm. And Oh God! The blood was so very very red. Pulling out a vile that he kept on his waist, the King looked at me, disdain and hate etched all over his pristine features. “Tonight, I brand you with your crimson blood.” Thumbing the cover off the vile, he shoved me with his foot to the floor. Placing his foot on my back, he poured salt to the wound and left me in yard. I remember lying in the floor with my face to ground, covered in dust, tears and blood. I had been left outside to drown in my shame. And as I wept, my mind went back to Sir Crimson’s words, “You are like a willow tree.
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