Abram's Weakness

Lord Abram Ross stood by the tall arched window in one of the hallways of the Ross Castle, his hands clasped behind his back, watching what was happening in the training yard below. 

His sons moved like warriors born, sweat glistening on their brows as they exchanged strikes with the experience of a man two times their senior.

And his youngest, Ren, moved with a confidence and strength that made Abram's chest swell with pride.

But he would never say it. Not because he didn't want to. 

His fingers curled into fists but he didn't squeeze. There was no need to. He'd long accepted this weakness in himself, and yes, that was what it was. A weakness.

He wouldn't give himself any excuses, even in the privacy of his own mind.

He twitched slightly as the quiet sound of footsteps approached, but he didn't need to turn to know who it was.