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I was seven.
I snuck into the market.
I handed a servant boy fruits and bread.
My father stood over me.
Duty, honour and faith.
A hand came colliding with my cheek, drawing blood.
I am a descendant of France.
I was nine.
I stood near the forest.
I watched a little commoner boy curl into a ball.
I heard laughter as nobility boys kicked him.
I broke one's nose.
A blurry, dark figure loomed above me.
Duty, honour and faith.
My head gets dunked into ice-cold water.
I am a descendant of––
I was eleven.
I held a dull sword in a lesson.
I studied the servant boy before me, skinny and afraid.
I dropped my sword.
Duty, honour, faith.
A whip lashes down onto my hands.
I am a––
I was thirteen.
A servant is nearly beaten.
Nearly.
Duty, honour––
Blood drips into puddles, my back screaming in pain.
Smother it––smother it––
I was fifteen.
Generals leer at a young girl in the kitchens.
I step forward.
Stop. Mercy. Please––
The crimson world swings into oblivion.
I was seventeen.
I felt nothing.
Duty, honour and faith.
My head shot up from the pillow, cold sweat chilling my entire body to ice. I shivered, raking my hand through my dark curls over and over again, painstakingly training my laboured breaths to silence. Dangerous doubts brushed against my ears, threatening to break free of my capricious heart. No. France needed me. I had to protect her, fight for her. The people outside of her borders lacked guidance; I needed to help them back to the right path to God and civility, teach them the proper teachings of France. It was my duty. Of course it was.
I am a descendant of France.
YOU ARE READING
Legacy
Historical Fiction"Duty, honour and faith" "I am a descendant of France" Fidele grew up in France, trained everyday since he can remember by his father to never show mercy to anyone. Fidele was never shown mercy either. Once he's prepared, he's sent to Tunisia with...
