VIII. Elliot Nightray
I was planning to leave on an overseas journey that would take me away from the country for almost a year, and in anticipation of that, I made one final visit to the family home before my extended travels. Elliot, who was about nine at the time, was in a particularly foul mood, and when Elliot gets in a foul mood, he tends to be quite expressive about it physically: stomping about the manor, slamming doors, kicking hallway runners out of sorts and picking fights with the stable boys.
I caught him starting a vicious argument with one of them for not mucking out the stall of his riding mare that morning; Elliot usually doesn't ride, and the poor stable boy was most likely in the process of finishing oiling my saddle in prep for my own daily exercises. Normally, I would always side with family over the help, but that moment, I knew Elliot was fuming about something else; hence, I grabbed him by the shirtcollar like a mother cat would to her kit and announced, "Elliot, we are going for a walk."
He refused to admit anything was amiss while we strolled through the back gardens of the manor and instead complained about various things: how Ernest and Claude never seemed to be home, or that Vanessa kept practicing her flute in the parlor whenever he wanted to practice piano, or how the cook was trying to feed him those dreadful beets again and he didn't take to that at all… until finally, he collapsed upon on a stone bench and buried his head in his knees.
I inquired as to what was the matter (suspecting that his temper tantrums were more than a child's fussiness), and he said in a rather despondent tone, "Fred, can I go traveling with you?"
"It's rather far," I said, not outrightly refusing his request, knowing that Elliot was a boy who needed to ramble out his rage for awhile before getting to the root of his discomfort. "I don't think Mother and Father would approve."
"Who cares what they think? Besides, Father's better off without me."
"Now where does that preposterous statement come from?" I retorted.
"All Father cares about is the Raven anyway." Elly mumbled, not raising his head. "'Snot like I have a chance at that."
His sadness reverted my memories toward a bitter part of the past. "Elliot," I took him by the shoulders. "Don't you dare underestimate your self-worth in that manner." The rage overwhelmed my senses and moreover, some resentment was directed towards Father, for to instill such misgivings was irresponsible and unfit for any nobleman to do to his progeny.
"You are a Nightray," I recall telling him. "A true-blooded Nightray. Never forget that. Chain or not, you will always be a Nightray. You never need to prove that to anyone."
"How did you do it?" he demanded in a trembling voice and then I realized the boy had been on the verge of angry tears.
Some time passed before I answered as an assortment of emotions, some that hadn't arisen for over a decade, overcame whatever sensible reply I would've been able to give. "By knowing where you stand," I finally replied. "And working diligently enough to ensure that no one else stands over you."
I'm unsure if Elliot fully understood the meaning of my words, but he nodded. After awhile, he roughly rubbed his eyes across the back of his sleeve, took my hand, and we returned to the manor.
Elliot has never brought up the subject of the Raven to me since then.