A Broken Heart Still Beats.

Prologue Part I

They say a broken heart is useless, that without the will to beat, and without the means to go on, it is without purpose and serves no more use than a torn sail does to a ship stuck out at sea.

He disagreed wholeheartedly.

For it was the broken hearts that thought so creatively, it was the broken hearts that searched endlessly for answers that they could never supply, it was the broken hearts that led the greatest of marches and ended the most violent of wars, and it was the broken-hearted that welcomed him.

He remembers not much from his time as a child, only that he was raised by his brothers–both of whom were older than him, a seven and eight-year difference—that they both did their best even as children themselves to take care of him. To make sure he ate enough and was protected when he was sick.

He ignored the fact that he looked like a replica of the both of them mixed. None of them ever spoke about how he looked six parts like his Er-ge and four parts like his Da-ge, and the fact that they never told him which one of them he was biologically related to as a result, yet it was always well known that the two were not biologically related to each other by any means.

They lived on the streets of any town they went through, the human traffickers couldn't stay in one place for exceedingly long, so they moved at least once a year. He didn't mind back then, his Da-ge always turned it into a game for him, telling him to count how many red houses they passed, how many horses he saw, and how many fat men walked by unnoticing of the three boys who hid under the tarp of one of the wagons.

His Er-ge was crueler in comparison to his Da-ge, always yelling at someone, he never liked the other slave children, always running them away from his territory and never letting them play with his Didi. He never minded back then, the other kids scared him, they were much bigger than he was, and he wasn't good at talking.

The human traffickers used to like him. He always heard them say that since he was the smallest and sickliest among them, he was the best for begging. They used to push a ratty old blanket in his arms and send him out to street corners, pinching his cheeks and his arms until he bruised and started crying, then ordering him to sit there until it got dark so people would take pity on him and give him money.

He never understood those days, only that afterward his eyes would be sore, his arms and cheeks would be sore, and his brothers would be upset. His Da-ge always hugged him, comforting him and braiding his hair while his Er-ge used words he hadn't been allowed to say back then, yelling, and shouting until his energy was spent and he would join him and Da-ge to sit down and fall asleep together.

In comparison to the rest of his life, he missed those cold nights on the street. Even though they were sickly and their bellies constantly empty, at least they had each other. At least they could still speak together, play together, and at least he could still see them.

The start of his unfortunate life started the day his brothers saved one of the other slave children from Qiu Jianluo's horse. His Er-ge, otherwise known as Shen Jiu, turned a rock into a dagger and stabbed his horse. His Da-ge; Yue Qi had been the one to run ahead and try to help the boy, but he had almost gotten trampled, and his Er-ge stepped in before he could get hurt.

It had ended badly, very, very badly.

Qiu Jianluo took his brother and him both. He wasn't sure why he had taken him, but all he knew was that he had been locked in a strange room without either of his brothers, alone and scared. He started crying immediately, calling out for his brothers, and wailing until someone came inside.

It was the young mistress of the house; Qiu Haitang, she had heard someone crying so heart-wrenchingly that she of course had to go inside that room and see who could be crying so wretchedly.