Chapter 1: Please, Don't Be Afraid
"Get up."
The command is followed by another violent kick. Once again, it lands on his ribs, making him wince. He can't take a breath without burning pain tearing his chest apart, yet breathe he must. He bites his lip to prevent himself from whimpering and stares at the darkness behind his eyelids, already wet from tears that have against his will formed in his eyes.
"Get up, or I'll gut you where you lie." Lord Tristan's cold voice, deprived of any care or compassion, threatens forcefully.
They are around the same age, the young lord having entered his seventeenth year less than two moons ago. He is very much like his father in cruelty and vindictiveness, but more cunning than the old drunkard. He knows he cannot be harmed, not here at the heart of de Martel estate, and he never hesitates to use that to his advantage.
Lucien takes hold of the hilt of his sword again and runs the blade into dirt, using it to help himself onto his knees. He wishes that a cherry tree nearby was just a bit closer so he could use it as a support, but it is, like everything else in life, out of his reach. He fights his tired and broken body, trying to make it straighten up, but his legs remain numb, as do his arms, and he is left helpless at the mercy of a merciless man.
When he finally finds the strength to raise his head and meets Tristan's blue eyes, his sight blurs and his head starts to spin. The contents of his stomach reach his throat; he barely swallows them down at the cost of having his own broken ribs run into the flesh of his chest. Pain tears its way through him wild and fast like lighting. He barely manages to keep his balance, holding tightly onto the sword as if it is the last remaining thread that ties him to life.
"Get on your feet right now or I'll..."
"Tristan!"
A voice calls the young lord's name. A voice Lucien cannot remember having heard before in the few months he has spent in de Martel home. Young and light-hearted – the voice of an angel. What is an angel doing in a house filled with demons? Has she come to free him from this miserable life?
He wills his eyes to open, waiting for another treacherous wave of pain to grip his body. It never comes. God grants him this small mercy and allows him to behold the sight in front of him – to behold her.
He watches wide-eyed as Tristan hugs a young girl – a year or two younger than himself – and even the merciless and cruel Tristan de Martel looks a kind and selfless man as his arms curl around the girl's back, pulling her closer.
Her hair, red as cherries (and surely of a scent just as sweet) that swing on the branchees above their heads, falls down her back in long soft locks, dancing about her as Tristan lifts her off the ground and spins around in an embrace so devoted and loving Lucien can scarcely believe it is the same man who was beating him senseless just a few moments ago. Her skin is the colour of an early spring's morning, when one can still feel the chilling touch of a winter's night, but her cheeks flush as she laughs in Tristan's arms. Her eyes are green fields in early summer, with a touch of golden rays of the sun reflected in them.
Is this Tristan's betrothed? After all, the young lord is coming to an age when he is supposed to start looking for a possible bride. If this girl is indeed the future Lady de Martel, then this world is a crueller place than Lucien has ever known. Tristan, who has everything and takes it all for granted, will receive yet another piece of heaven, while Lucien will always remain a poor servant in a household that makes hell seem like a lovable, warm home.
Still, there is no time to think about the unfairness of life as his eyes fall onto the lady's face once again. What would he give for one gaze in return, to bathe in the light of two suns that are her eyes...
