A Time to Hate

It hurt. That was all that really registered at first. After the complete and utter shock wore away, all he could feel was the pain. God, that was pain if there ever was pain.

But at least he was gone now. For a while. He had said he was coming back, hadn't he? In all the confusion, Ayuru hadn't really been paying attention. After that event, he couldn't really bring himself to face that man, let alone pay attention to what was being said.

The sound of his sobs, of his own heart trying to forcefully expel itself from his chest; they had blocked out the sound of the words that were murmered with false kindness.

He did return, but he was clothed this time, at least. It wasn't bad compared to the other things that had happened that day. His mother, his village, Taria. It wasn't bad at all... as long as he wasn't being touched.

Touched with hands that were soft from the finest lotions and oils. Delicate from never lifting a finger for himself in his life. Manicured with the blood of an entire people: his people. And his hands roamed the small, eleven year old body, exploring the delicate, pale skin. His mouth followed suit, kissing and whispering words of deception.

The boy didn't think he had enough tears to cry any more. How long had he been laying there, his heart exposed? Hours? Maybe days. He couldn't be sure himself. Things had blurred after the first thrust.

The boy vaguely recollected being called beautiful. His mother used to tell him that he was pretty like a girl. The emperor had said that also, hadn't he? In his throne room, and then again, when they were alone.

Was this what beauty got him? Was this what being pretty meant? He decided that he hated his beauty. He hated it all, his appearance, his strength, his weakness, and most of all, his accute sensitivity to everything he felt. He just hated everything.

He hated it all. He wanted it all to die.

He could see himself in the mirror beside the emperor's bed. The features that stared back at him were foreign, even to his own eyes. They were dry and cold. The tears that had stained his perfect, delicate features had evaporated, and instead, a mask replaced the face that exposed his true emotions.

He smiled coolly at the reflection. This mask that hid him; it protected him. People - everybody - had used his own emotions and weaknesses to hurt him, but if they couldn't see him - the real him - then they couldn't hurt him.

Ice, cold, unrelenting, spiraled tauntingly around his scarred soul; touching him, freezing him. Numbing him. He allowed the frigid tendrils to cover him.

If nobody saw him, then nobody could hurt him. He breathed his hatred now, using it as power, using it to keep his broken heart from shattering further. He reveled in it, letting it consume him. He stared into the mirror. He stared at his soft, blonde hair; his foreign, blue eyes; his soft features and pale skin. He stared at himself, but it was not Ayuru that returned his curious gaze. The boy smiled, satisfied. All he could feel now was the hate, and the hate could not hurt him.