Tristan slowly regained consciousness. He woke lying in bed, surrounded by darkness. His body ached and he was disoriented. He wasn’t sure where he was or how much time had passed since he had been fully conscious. His head throbbed sickeningly where he had been hit. When he tried to sit up he felt a stabbing pain in his left side. He lay back down and slipped his hand under his shirt, gingerly fingering the bandage covering his wound. The bandage felt wet and the slight pressure from his hand hurt. He winced and moved his hand to rest on his stomach.
They hadn’t let him bleed to death. Undoubtedly they recognized he was too valuable. He moved his hands over his body experimentally. These weren’t the clothes he had been wearing. He was disconcerted to realize that someone had stripped him of his clothes and dressed him in nightclothes sometime after he had lost consciousness. At first he felt violated that they had seen him undressed, but then he realized that he would rather sacrifice some of his dignity than spend the night shivering in filthy, damp garments. At least he was warm and dry now, something he hadn’t been in days. After finishing his cursory examination, he lay still and tried to perceive his surroundings.
One of the first things he became aware of was the heavy rain outside. He listened to it lash the roof and the window. It had a constant, reassuring beat. He couldn’t hear anything above it. It blanketed all other noise and was like a cloak sheltering him as he lay there in the dark. He felt protected. He lay listening to the rain’s steady pounding. The sound had always been soothing for him; a calming presence, even as a child. He listened to the rain’s tears in silence.
After a few minutes the pain in his side was relegated to a dull ache. The bed he was lying on was soft and warm. He turned his head to the side so that his right cheek rested on the smooth pillow. He watched the rain pelt the window, a witness to the night’s beauty. The faint glow of the moon, like a gently smoldering ember, illuminated the streaming torrents that fell from the heavens. He watched the individual droplets of water on the panes, trickling down the glass like tears. He gazed out of the window into the weeping night.
As he watched the tears fall from the sky he remembered. The singing of the arrow as it spiraled through the air—coldly, relentlessly seeking its target. His shocked scream as his companion fell. His fingers bathed in blood. Anger and fear. Struggling against the strong arms that restrained him. Stabbing out at the lord with the dagger he had concealed and receiving a blow to the head. It had all happened so fast, he wasn’t certain who had hit him, though he had his suspicions. He had felt the lord’s arms around his back, and then one hand had come to rest on the back of his head. Their eyes had met for a moment. And then darkness. Nothing except darkness. Just like now.
He felt too numb to cry, like he had been drained of all emotion along with his energy and spirit. He rolled over onto his right side. He bent at the knees and brought his legs up under him, tucking his hands against his chest. Shivering despite the fire crackling pleasantly in the hearth near the foot of his bed, he sank back down into his pillow, pulling the covers around him, and curled up. He burrowed down into the warmth.
But as he lay there unmoving he felt the bitter night air begin to creep into his bones, its cruel, insistent fingers probing and working their way into his soul. He couldn’t seem to shake this feeling; this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he had swallowed an ice cube and it was slowly trickling down his throat and through his insides. This recognition that his companion had been killed but he had been spared, for a reason he didn’t yet understand.
At first he had been hopeful that these men would somehow help him, take him away to a new life free of all that had happened in the past, release him from these chains that bound him and made it so he would never be free. Release him from his imprisonment. But as soon as he recognized that they meant to take him by force, his hope had vanished. As soon as he saw that they knew who he was, he knew that his optimism had been foolish.
But in those last moments with the man who had spoken to him—the man with the light eyes—there had been a different feeling. As he had gripped onto his shirt to keep from falling, the lord had rested one hand at the small of his back. He had cupped his other hand behind his head, his thumb brushing against his hair. The last thing he had felt before losing consciousness was the lord’s hands holding him up, supporting him. He hadn’t hit the ground after collapsing.
The way the man had held him had not been unkind. It had been almost…gentle. Almost…warm. He remembered the hand on the back of his head, and how good it had felt. Not dominating; almost reassuring, telling him everything would be alright. In a way he had felt comforted by the gesture. Implausible as it seemed, in that moment he had felt that he could trust him; that he didn’t intend to hurt him. But in his heart he knew it had felt that way only because he wanted it so badly; because he wanted to trust him. But he knew he couldn’t. He had learned his lesson. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Җ
“He bled a lot last night. When did you treat the wound?”
“We only found him yesterday. I had to re-open it so I could clean and close it properly.”
“This injury is not recent. It looks days old. If you hadn’t found him and brought him here, he would have fallen to infection or been felled by the elements, whichever claimed him first.”
“I know. That’s why I needed to find him.”
“Was he traveling alone?”
“No; he had a servant with him; a bodyguard of sorts. He must have carried him some of the way. I don’t think he could have made it that far on that ankle.”
“Where is—”
“He’s no longer accompanying the boy.”
Tristan slowly drifted back to consciousness. He heard their voices for a few moments before opening his eyes. He had been in a very deep sleep, exhausted from the trials of the past few days. It was daytime but the light coming in from the window was muted. The sky was gray and portended snow. The faces of the lord and a man he assumed was the doctor peered down at him, studying him. He tried to sit up but was immediately pierced with a stab of raw pain from his left side. The lord gently but firmly pushed him back down into the pillows. “No; stay still,” he instructed.
Tristan obeyed, having little choice in the matter. Now that the adrenaline from yesterday was gone, he realized he hurt badly. He didn’t have the strength to fight with either man right now. He laid back submissively and let himself be handled, not making eye contact with either man. He had lost enough blood to weaken and subdue him. He was not relaxed, but compliant, reluctantly recognizing his physical limitations at the moment.
He wondered how long the two men had been there, sitting beside him while he slept, examining him. The bottom of his shirt had been pushed up to expose his abdomen and the band of his pants had been slipped down slightly to give access to his hip. The doctor had already unwrapped the soiled bandage from his side and had cleaned the wound, using cloths to soak up the fresh blood that had come in the night. The crimson-streaked cloths lay beside him on the bed, the red color contrasting sharply with the white sheets.
He looked up at the man who had hit him. He had light blue, almost gray eyes. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and he was clean-shaven. His features were not unlike his own, only a little more angular and not as soft. He was tall and had broad shoulders. He conveyed a power and a strength that left Tristan wondering how he had ever had the courage to defy him the previous day. He knew his desperation had compelled him to act boldly and impulsively.
This man could hurt him; Tristan had little doubt of that. And he could easily overpower him, especially now, when he was weak from his injuries, exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry. This man was clearly in control. But despite his imposing stature and air of command, there was a certain calmness and gentleness in his eyes that seemed to indicate that he was not a cruel man.
Tristan surmised that he was a lord by his dress and apparent standing with the other men. He was quite young to be a lord—Tristan guessed older than thirty but not yet forty. He wondered if his father had died and left him the lordship, as his own father had.
The doctor meticulously coated his fingers with ointment. He touched the raw, tender skin carefully; nevertheless, Tristan jumped, lifting his back off the bed. The lord placed his hand on his chest to hold him still while the doctor treated him. When the doctor gently rubbed his fingers over the sore wound again, Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the throbbing ache he felt. The doctor’s hands were cold and probing as they spread ointment over his stitches, but he gradually relaxed his muscles as he ascertained that neither man intended to hurt him at present.
He opened his eyes and looked at the wood-paneled ceiling. Then his eyes slowly traveled around the room, taking in the stately fireplace, the mahogany, hand-carved furniture, the flickering candles in sconces on the walls, the furs on top of the blankets on his bed. It wasn’t quite as grand as his residence, but he didn’t mind. Those things had never mattered much to him.
Tristan knew he wasn’t home, but this place looked no less familiar than the place he called home. He didn’t want to be here, but he didn’t want to go back, either. He had recognized that if these men captured him, they would return him once they secured their ransom, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to be away from that place and never return. It meant nothing to him now, and it didn’t feel like home anymore. It hadn’t for a long time.
When the doctor finished lubricating the wound he dressed it with fresh bandages. Matthias slipped a hand under Tristan’s lower back and lifted his hips slightly off the bed so the doctor could wrap the cloth around the boy’s slim torso.
The doctor pulled back the sheets on the bed and gently retracted Tristan’s left leg. He rolled up the leg of his pants to mid-calf and gently held his ankle. It was badly bruised and swollen, but he had little capacity to treat sprained limbs. It would simply require time to heal. “He shouldn’t put weight on his ankle until it heals,” he told Matthias. He slipped his arm behind the boy’s back and helped him to a sitting position. He positioned several pillows behind his back for support. Then he reached over to the nightstand beside the bed and held a glass of water for him to drink. He raised the glass to Tristan’s lips. Tristan took the glass from him and drank without prompting.
After he finished the water, grateful it had been offered to him, Tristan placed the glass on the nightstand. He averted his eyes and looked down at his hands. Yesterday they had been covered with his companion’s blood, but today they were spotless. It was clear they had been cleaned, just as the blood stains on his body had. He shivered.
“Are you cold?”
He gave Matthias an icy stare but didn’t respond to his question. He pushed the pillows that supported his back away and lay down on his right side, wincing a little from the movement. He turned his body away from both men and wrapped the covers around him protectively, indicating that he wanted to be left alone. From where Matthias sat, it looked like his eyes were closed. It seemed as if he desired nothing more than to ignore the two men who sat at his bedside, but Matthias needed to speak with him before he left him alone to rest. He recognized that the boy was overwhelmed and didn’t want to face his new reality. But Matthias needed him to know why this had happened to him; he needed him to recognize where he stood. Tristan needed to know why he had been taken. It was only fair to tell him, though what he said would not be the whole truth. Afterward he would let him sleep more to regain his strength and allow him time to accept what he had been told.
Though Tristan was clearly resentful of the manner of his capture, Matthias observed that he was much more subdued this morning, as he had hoped he would be. Much of the adrenaline from yesterday’s pursuit and capture had seemingly worn off, and now he seemed weary and discouraged. He could tell he didn’t feel much like fighting today. Perhaps the reality of his situation was, in fact, setting in—he seemed to want to hide under the covers. And Matthias knew that his body hurt—his side, ankle, and head—and he still had a fever. With his injuries and hunger and fatigue weakening him, Matthias decided that now would be a good time to talk to him, while he was relatively calm and not overly aggressive. He touched Tristan’s side lightly and the boy jumped and pushed his hand away without looking at him, as if he were simply an irritation.
“He just needs to rest, and his wound needs to be kept clean and dry. He’ll be okay.”
“Thank you, doctor. Leave us now,” Matthias said. He watched Tristan’s eyes snap open at the direction. Clearly he had been listening and was not nearly as unconcerned as he tried to appear. Immediately he tensed and appeared anxious. He turned toward Matthias, watching him closely, and then gazed after the doctor as he left the room.
Matthias rose from where he sat on the bed and walked over to close the door. Though the gesture was seemingly innocuous, it drew an immediate reaction from the boy. Despite the soreness in his side, Tristan scrambled to the far corner of the bed, distancing himself as much as possible from the man.
When Matthias turned back to face Tristan, he saw fear, anger, and betrayal in his eyes. Clearly he had an expectation for what would happen between them now that the door was closed. For the first time, Matthias wondered if he had been hurt before. As he approached the bed, Tristan stared back at him like a cornered animal, muscles tensed, trapped and ready to defend itself. He was intimidated and frightened, yet still he was defiant. In his agitation and seeming desperation, he was prepared to fight. But Matthias needed him to remain calm. If the boy struggled with him, he would only further injure himself. If he tried to escape, he might fracture his ankle or tear his stitches out.
Matthias slowly sat on the opposite side of the bed. He reached his fingers backward to touch the cold metal of the shackles on the nightstand. In the flurry of activity, he didn’t think Tristan had noticed them. In one fluid motion he lunged forward, grabbed Tristan’s left wrist, and shackled it to the bedpost, snapping the prongs closed with a loud click. Caught off guard by the suddenness of the movement, Tristan struggled with the shackle for a moment, trying to yank his wrist free, before he concluded that he couldn’t release himself. He turned toward Matthias, enraged and even more frightened.
Now Matthias could speak with him without the threat of attempted escape. “Easy. It’s okay,” he said softly, trying to soothe him. “I’m not going to hurt you unless you force me to.” He spoke to the boy in an even, calm tone. “Alright?”
Tristan said nothing. He continued to stare at Matthias with ice-cold eyes.
“Are you refusing to talk now? You had a lot to say yesterday.”
Still, Tristan was silent.
“Just talk to me. I won’t hurt you.”
Finally Tristan spoke, but it was clear he didn’t believe Matthias. “You hit me,” he said resentfully. Matthias noted the bitter accusation in his voice, as well as the hurt that he tried to disguise.
“I’m sorry. But you gave me no choice. You tried to stab me,” Matthias reminded him.
Tristan stared back at him, neither confirming nor denying the statement. It was clear he didn’t want to take responsibility for his actions.
“I’m not your enemy, Tristan,” Matthias said quietly.
“Then who are you?” Tristan challenged.
“My name is Matthias.” There was no harm in telling the boy his name. He would never return to his home.
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Tristan snapped.
“No, I suppose not,” Matthias said quietly. “Look—” He reached toward the boy in a reconciliatory manner, but Tristan jerked away from him violently, pulling on the shackle again.
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Matthias said to him.
“Why do you care?” Tristan spat.
“Why would I want to hurt you? I saved you.”
“No—”
“Yes, I did. And you know it. Is that why you’re angry at me—because deep down you know you should be thanking me, and you don’t know how to?”
“I don’t have to thank you for anything,” Tristan retorted.
“I’m not asking for thanks. But I need you to understand I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart,” Matthias replied in a sharper tone. “I’m doing this because I need you, and for no other reason.”
“What do you need me for? You don’t even know me,” Tristan snarled.
“You’re right. I don’t know you. But I know you’re smart enough to listen to reason. I’ll tell you why I need you, as soon as you calm down.” He made a slow, unthreatening movement toward him.
“Let me go!” Tristan yelled, tugging at the shackle, acting as if Matthias was hurting him this very moment.
“I know you’re scared, but—”
“I’m not scared.”
“Stop interrupting me!” Matthias replied angrily. Tristan looked taken aback at the frustration evident in his tone. It seemed as if he didn’t understand why Matthias was exasperated with him. How could he not recognize that his patience with him was wearing thin? Did he truly not realize that his defensive nature was becoming wearisome? Perhaps not. He seemed surprised and almost a little wounded in response to Matthias’ outburst.
Matthias took a deep breath to compose himself. “You are scared. I’m not going to argue with you.” He paused and Tristan didn’t say anything, though he looked like he desperately wanted to deny Matthias’ claim. Matthias continued: “You need to relax. I’m not asking you, Tristan. I’m telling you. If you refuse to listen to me, I will make you hurt even more than you already do. Do you understand me?”
Tristan glared at him and swallowed. “This is as calm and cooperative as I’m going to get when you have me chained up like a prisoner,” he said, glancing loathingly at the shackle around his wrist.
Clearly, the boy wasn’t responding well to his approach. They were both too stubborn to relent. Matthias decided to try a different method.
He nodded toward the shackle on Tristan’s wrist. “Do you want me to take it off?”
Tristan’s scowl turned to an expression of surprise at the offer.
“Yes,” he said, guarded.
“I will, as soon as you are calm. You have my word. But in return, you have to promise me you won’t try anything.”
Tristan looked him in the eye and nodded after a moment. “I won’t.”
Matthias unlocked the shackle and returned it to the nightstand. As promised, Tristan didn’t move, still perched on the edge of the bed.
Matthias dipped a cloth in a bowl of cold water on the nightstand and slowly wrung most of the moisture out. He reached out to touch the bruise on Tristan’s left temple. The boy immediately recoiled from his touch, making it clear that he did not want contact.
Matthias held his hands up in front of him, palms open. “I won’t touch you, but you need to listen to me. Okay?”
Tristan nodded tersely, a little more cooperative now that the shackle had been removed. He stared at his hands, and then finally looked up at Matthias.
“You killed him,” he said in a strangled whisper.
“You know I had no choice,” replied Matthias. “I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t give the order. My men did that on their own. I’m sorry that you had to see that.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“Would you have come willingly?”
Tristan ignored the question. “Did you bury him, or did you just leave him out there in the open?” he asked urgently, his voice increasing in pitch.
Matthias broke his gaze. “We didn’t bury him.”
Tristan looked indignant and disgusted. He turned his body away from Matthias.
“There was no time to bury your servant,” Matthias continued. “It was dusk. If we hadn’t found you last night, you surely would have frozen to death out there. The temperature dropped considerably.”
Tristan didn’t respond, hot tears brimming in his eyes. Matthias’ eyes searched for Tristan’s, but the boy wouldn’t look at him.
“I am no barbarian,” Matthias insisted. “Would you have rather died out there?” When the boy said nothing, Matthias commanded, “Answer me, Tristan.”
Tristan reluctantly met his eyes. “No,” he said quietly.
After a moment Matthias said, “I’m going to touch you now. I won’t hurt you. Okay?”
Tristan didn’t say anything, but he didn’t protest, either.
Matthias re-wet the cloth he was holding and reached out toward the bruise on Tristan’s temple once more. Tristan hesitated for a moment but then allowed him to touch his face, wincing a little upon first contact. Matthias pushed the boy’s mahogany hair off of his forehead. The bruise above his brow marred the beauty of his porcelain skin. He gently pressed the cool cloth against the angry, swollen skin and held it there.
“Who are you?” asked Tristan as he felt Matthias’ fingers lightly brush his cheek. He raised his hazel eyes to meet the man’s.
“Like I said, my name is Matthias.” He watched Tristan silently mouth his name. “I am a lord like yourself,” he continued, “but you may call me by my first name. I allow everyone to call me that,” he clarified, lest the boy assume he was somehow special. “But unlike your home, I have no servants here,” he said. “I have friends and advisors.”
“You’ve been to my home?” Tristan asked.
Matthias hesitated. “No,” he said. “I— ” He stopped. “It doesn’t matter,” he finished.
“Why are you doing this?” Tristan asked.
“Your father—”
“My father is dead,” Tristan snapped.
“Your stepfather—”
“I do not call him Father,” the boy interjected.
“He has taken something that belongs to me.”
Tristan carefully watched Matthias, desiring more information.
Instead, the man sitting before him asked a question: “How old are you?”
Surprised by the question, Tristan considered Matthias before he responded. “Almost sixteen.”
“My friend’s son is ten years old,” said Matthias. “Younger than you. His name is Faran. He was taken by your stepfather and I need to get him back. Alive and unharmed.”
Tristan saw aching sadness in the man’s eyes, but he also detected fierce anger in them. Matthias’ intent to protect this boy was strong, and threatening to any and all who stood in his way. Tristan had no desire to stand in his way.
“You’ll stay here until the boy is returned,” Matthias explained. “Then an exchange will be made. This may not be as nice as your home, but—”
“I never said anything,” Tristan pointed out, his tone non-confrontational for the moment.
“Well, I know you want for nothing there and are given everything you could possibly desire.”
“That’s not true,” Tristan said, quietly but adamantly. He wanted to tell Matthias he hated it there, but he didn’t think it would help his cause. Matthias would probably just assume he was a spoiled brat, as most people did.
Matthias fully recognized that he was lying to the boy about the circumstances of his abduction; he was more than simply concealing the truth from him. The truth was there was no exchange. Only one boy would come home; the other would never return. But he knew revealing the truth to Tristan would only make him more anxious than he already was. He wouldn’t understand why he had to do this. No one would.
He gave Tristan a small smile. The boy stared back at him with a puzzled expression on his face. He had no way of knowing exactly what Tristan was thinking, but considering their interaction yesterday had ended with a blow to the head, he personally thought their conversation, if that’s what it could be called, had been a vast improvement.
Җ
That evening Matthias returned to the guest bedroom with food for Tristan. Tristan sat up gingerly when he entered the room, grimacing as his injured side protested at the movement. Matthias sat down on the bed beside the boy and set the tray of food on the nightstand, just out of Tristan’s reach. He felt his forehead with the back of his hand. Distracted by the food, Tristan only drew back a little when he touched him. Matthias noted that with his wound cleaned and closed, his fever had diminished.
Tristan’s mouth watered and his stomach grumbled as he greedily eyed the meat and cheese on the tray. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days.
“Are you hungry?”
He nodded.
“Good,” Matthias said. His tone was more amiable than Tristan had expected.
Tristan’s eyes fixed on a knife tucked inside a cloth napkin on the tray. He felt a sickening flood of excitement in his belly. He quickly averted his eyes from the blade and waited for his opportunity. It was automatic, this instinct to protect himself, just as he would when his stepfather hit him.
He had assessed his escape options after Matthias had left the room following their conversation. He had hobbled over to the window and seen that leaving that way would lead to a thirty-foot fall to his death. Even when the stone courtyard below was covered with snow, the fall would undoubtedly be deadly. His body would lay sprawled on the cobblestones, broken and wet with blood, limbs positioned at an odd angle, gently twitching as his life slipped away from him.
It was through the door or nothing. But first he would have to gain Matthias’ trust so he would allow him out of this room. He had no intention of attempting escape tonight. He was overwhelmed and too weak, and the inside of this room was the only part of the manor house he had seen so far. He wouldn’t know how to get out. But he would keep the knife with him to use at a later opportunity, perhaps after his ankle was strong enough to bear weight.
When Matthias turned his back for a moment, Tristan noiselessly slid his left arm toward the nightstand until his fingers touched cold metal. He carefully grasped the knife in his fingers, tucking the utensil flat against his palm. He brought his hand close to his body and placed his palm flat against the mattress, concealing the blade. He rested his right hand over his abdomen.
Matthias turned back toward him just as he had settled himself against the pillows. “Give it to me,” he growled quietly, locking eyes with Tristan. When the boy feigned innocence he roughly grabbed his left arm. He felt his muscles tense under his fingers, resisting him. “You’re hurting me,” Tristan implored, glaring at the man reproachfully. “Don’t. Just—don’t,” said Matthias unsympathetically. He refused to play games with the boy. Despite his warning, Tristan struggled. He was strong, but he could not overpower a full-grown man, especially when he was weakened by his injuries.
Matthias reached for Tristan’s hand. Tristan impulsively closed his hand around the knife and the blade cut deep into his palm. He inhaled sharply and the blade clattered to the floor. He closed his hand to protect his wound, already dripping blood on the sheets. Matthias forced Tristan’s fingers to unclasp, holding his hand open, and examined the deep slice in his palm. “Damn you!” he said angrily, grabbing the cloth napkin and wrapping it around the boy’s bloody hand. Tristan bit his lip to avoid gasping when he roughly tightened the cloth to stop the flow of blood. Even so, blood blossomed on the cloth.
After Matthias knotted the cloth around his hand, Tristan met his eyes uncertainly. Matthias returned his uneasy gaze for a moment and then slapped him, connecting with his left cheekbone. Tristan turned his head at the sting, squeezing his watering eyes shut for a moment. He knew he deserved this, and the man could have done much worse to him, but to be slapped felt like an injustice, an embarrassment. Against his better judgment, he kicked out at Matthias with his uninjured foot.
Tristan knew immediately that he had made a mistake; that he had misjudged both his captor’s patience and tolerance for disobedience. In an instant Matthias’ arm was pressed hard against his chest, pinning him flat against the bed. His arm pushed against his throat, constricting his breathing a bit. He didn’t struggle when Matthias turned him over onto his stomach; he only winced at the pressure on his injured left side. Matthias pressed his hand to his back for a moment. Tristan understood enough to stay still and not make it worse for himself. He felt the man take his throbbing left hand and once again clamp the cold metal shackle around his wrist. As Matthias fastened him to the bed, Tristan wondered if he would spend the rest of his time in this place bound like a prisoner. It would most likely require a heartfelt apology as well as an oath of obedience in order for Matthias to unlock him, and he didn’t have the stomach for either at the moment. He had too much pride.
After Matthias unfastened his belt he pushed up Tristan’s shirt to expose his back. He paused as he noticed bruises on his lower back. He had assumed that no one had ever laid a hand on this boy, but clearly he was mistaken. He knew neither he nor his men had inflicted the bruises; their yellowish hue indicated that they were older. With this new knowledge he decided not to thrash Tristan, though he had half a mind to for the defiance he had exhibited toward him. There was nothing he despised more than disrespect, particularly from a youth who practically begged to be humbled and shown his proper place. He didn’t appreciate the boy’s poor attitude. He had fully expected him to defer to him, maybe even cower a little. Most people did, but it was clear it was not in the boy’s nature to do so.
The sharp metal buckle tore the boy’s skin upon impact, but Matthias avoided hitting the bruises on his lower back as well as the wound that snaked down his left side. Tristan jumped in response to each stroke. He was already bleeding some, scarlet trickling slowly from his arched shoulders. He trembled as the man hit him, blinking back tears. He squeezed his eyes shut so the tears couldn’t escape. Matthias could see Tristan’s fists tightly gripping the sheets, the grimace on his face. His right cheek was pressed against the bed, his left cheek turned up; his cheekbone swelling where he had hit him. After a short time Matthias could see he had had enough and stopped. He refastened his belt around his waist, watching the boy sprawled on the bed. He was still shaking, anticipating more punishment. His eyes remained closed.
Matthias knelt on the bed behind Tristan. When Tristan felt his weight on the bed, he buried his face in the pillow. He didn’t want Matthias to see his face. Matthias placed a firm hand on his back. He held him down, though he didn’t need to. He felt the wetness of his blood.
“You fool!” he hissed in his ear. “That was a mistake, Tristan, in case you hadn’t figured it out. Don’t expect any kindness from me if you’re going to act like that.” Tristan trembled at the anger in his voice. Matthias continued: “You display remarkably poor judgment. I didn’t think you were stupid enough to try something like that, but clearly I thought much too highly of you. I couldn’t have imagined you’d be so foolish, but here we are.”
He paused for a moment and Tristan was absolutely still, waiting for him to finish. “Like I said, I will treat you well if you let go of some of that pride and learn your place. If not, it will be painful for both of us.”
Matthias paused before he resumed speaking. “It’s exceedingly apparent that you don’t know what’s best for you. Let me make your choices very clear: you can either stay here with me and live, or you can die out there. We both know you wouldn’t last more than a minute on your own. And the boy who has everything—who is given anything his heart desires—will lose everything. Choose carefully.”
“And Tristan,” Matthias said quietly, “one more thing.” Tristan cringed at the disapproval evident in his voice. Matthias moved his hand to the boy’s shoulder and leaned over him, close to the back of his head. He paused to give his words emphasis. “You truly have no idea how much worse it could be,” he whispered. Tristan shuddered.
Matthias released his grip on Tristan and roughly pulled the boy’s shirt back down to cover his bloodied back. He wiped his hands on his shirt and Tristan was still. Matthias’ eyes lingered on the blood he had smeared across the boy’s white shirt. He got off of the bed and retrieved the knife from the floor, taking Tristan’s uneaten supper with him. He wet his fingers in his mouth and snuffed out the candles before striding out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and locked it from the outside with a sharp click.
Tristan was left lying in the solitude of darkness. He lay unmoving, even after Matthias was gone. There was nothing he despised more than being threatened and humiliated. He hated the man for making assumptions about him, just as everyone else did. Matthias clearly assumed he couldn’t take care of, let alone do anything for, himself. He knew he thought he was nothing more than an ungrateful, spoiled brat just because he was privileged. But he didn’t know him. He would never know him. And Matthias had hit him. He was no different than his stepfather, though he pretended to be fair and honorable.
Yet even after all this, there was a part of him that still wanted the man’s approval; still yearned for his praise. And it made him feel so weak.
Tristan was tired, hungry, and sore. His back felt wet with blood against his shirt, his cheek stung where Matthias had struck him, and his hand throbbed sickeningly. But mostly his pride was wounded. Matthias acted as if he had a choice with regard to how he was treated. But he knew he had no choice. It didn’t matter how obedient he was. Nothing was in his control. He knew what kind of man his stepfather was. He knew he wouldn’t be merciful to the boy he had captured; he knew he would hurt him before he returned him. And then what choice would Matthias have but to cause him pain too?
Tristan delicately rolled onto his right side and laid his head on the pillow, pulling the covers around him. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry when Matthias was here, but now he was alone and he could. He bent his knees slightly and brought his legs up under him, curling up with his hands tucked against his body. He cried quietly, tears of frustration dripping down his hot cheeks. He didn’t want the man to hear him crying. He gently cradled his throbbing left hand in his right. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, causing his hand to swell. Thankfully the shackle was long enough so that he could rest his left hand on the bed mattress instead of having to hold it against the headboard. He wondered if Matthias had purposefully left him some slack in the chain so he would be more comfortable, or if it was merely because of his haste that that he had not tightened it more. He decided this small courtesy had been unintentional.
He wasn’t crying because the man had struck him. He was used to that. He was crying because in his heart he knew that this life he was living was a lie, a flimsy façade and nothing more. He pretended that everything was alright. But the truth was nothing was right. He had tried to deny it and run from it for so long. He had tried to hide from the darkness, pain, and continuing torment that threatened to consume him and drag him under to the fiery depths of Hell.
He was crying because he knew he had no home to go back to. He had no one to go home to. He recognized that no one was waiting for him, hoping and praying for his safe return. There were no good memories to hold onto, to remind him that there were people who still loved him. He had nothing to go back to, so what should be the joy of homecoming would be as meaningless and devoid of emotion as the last four years of his life had been. He was desperate to escape from a life that meant less and less to him with each passing day, as every good memory he had ever had slowly slipped away.
Tristan cried from the very depths of his soul because of his wounds. The wounds that pained him so weren’t physical, though. Aside from the wounds he had suffered recently in the forest and those he had suffered as a result of his capture, there wasn’t so much as a permanent imperfection on his body, though the jagged wound that crawled down his side would likely scar.
But emotionally, he was devastated. Inside, he was horribly, cruelly disfigured; grossly mutilated. People soon turned away from him when they realized that he was broken.
The scars weren’t on his body. They were on his heart. And that made them deeper; made them hurt more; made them more permanent. Time hadn’t healed his pain. It had only deepened the scars and made him realize that they would never heal.
The pain in his heart far surpassed the pain any physical wound could bring. He wished he couldn’t feel anything. The aching loneliness that he felt threatened to overwhelm him. He was burdened by this wound that wouldn’t ever fully heal.
The ghost of his past life haunted him, forever wandering the halls of his memories, opening doors that only held pain for him now. It was a constant reminder of all that he had once had, and now, all that he had lost. He had been happy once, surrounded by people who loved him. Now his only companion was loneliness.
Everyone he loved had left him, and so he had promised himself he would never love again. The pain of losing them would be too much for him to bear. His heart—what was left of it—would surely shatter. He knew he was weak. He wasn’t strong enough to make himself whole.
He would never trust again. He would never love again. He would never be whole again. He had lost pieces of himself along the way that he knew he would never find again, and he couldn’t put himself back together. He was too lost.
He felt abandoned, like a vulnerable babe left out to die from exposure in the cruel heart of winter. The only thing he wished for was to fall into the arms of someone who loved him. But he had no one. He had no home. He had nothing left. And so he didn’t know why he was fighting so hard.
He was a prisoner once again. His hands hadn’t been bound then, but he was no more a prisoner now than he had been then. He didn’t think these men meant to kill him, but even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. He knew that if they were to open up his chest, see his heart and peer into his soul, they would find that they were too late. They would see that inside, he was already dead.
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