It hasn't always been this way.
Not that anyone would understand, even if they knew. Sure, there'd never really been much in the way of physical damage. Not since he began school at the belated age of seven. Never, since he was old enough that they thought someone might find out. They wouldn't, not when there was a chance that someone would see through the perfect family image, and know what lay beneath.
That didn't mean he was never injured. Little things, "inadvertent" things – such as being pushed in a way that made him fall, or knocked into when his hand was close to a stove-burner. Those sorts of things, they could happen to anyone. So, of course, no one thought a thing of it. Accidents happen, these things are explained. He was, of course, "very clumsy".
No one cared, not a bit, that there were signs of mistreatment; that things weren't as perfect as they seemed. No one ever mentioned that he never wore a piece of suitable clothing, nor was anything said when he smelled from not showering in weeks, or when he never befriended any other children. In so many ways, for so long, it had simply been overlooked.
And anything that couldn't be overlooked was, of course, his fault.
Sometimes, he wished the abuse were physical, if it could be pain in his body without the pain in his heart, his soul. If he could choose between being beaten, but still cared for, or being ignored as he was, he'd take the pain any day. Wounds heal in days, and scars will fade; emotions, on the other hand, die only with their bearer.
It was like a cage. Had he been beaten, he'd have been forced into it. It would be real, concrete, and physical. All he'd have to do is escape, physically escape, and it would be gone. However hard it might be to leave, he would at least have the knowledge that he would find himself safe, forever free, if he managed it. Perhaps because then, there would be something to fight, bars to pound his fists against.
His cage was in his mind.
How do you escape yourself?
How do you walk past walls that exist only in your mind? Somehow, somewhere, he knew there was a way. Years ago, he might have found that way. Even now, he supposed there was a chance, if only there were someone to help him search. But no-one knew, and no-one could know. Because he couldn't tell them. He wasn't silent because of pride, nor for fear of what it would do to his image. He was silent for fear of his own relations.
He knew, if he told, they'd kill him.
It would be the simplest solution. After all, their aversion to physical punishment wasn't exactly rooted in care for him. If he showed them as they were, if their perfect, righteous friends from the perfect, pious church finally saw the horrid truth, there'd be no reason left for them to hide. If he were on hand at the time, it would be quick. If he weren't, they would hunt him for as long as it took, going after him with a single-mindedness that even the Dark Lord might envy. And they would, certainly, succeed where he had not.
It would be worth destroying their perfect image, to find his own end at their hands. He might even have told someone, this year, except for his sudden discovery of a reason not to. So he would keep his secret, a bit longer. He would wait to save himself, wait until after he saved the world.
And then he would have his revenge.
And they would have theirs.
And then? Peace.
