He never asked for this life...
He had hoped for a different life, yes but…
From his patchwork of broken memories and grisly dreams, most of which had plagued him well into adolescence, he could scarcely recall a time before bed, each and every night, where he, young and afraid, would kneel by the window overlooking the garden and pray.
Pray to the moon, the stars, the sea… Whoever would listen, occult or not, blasphemous or not…
(He had long since stopped bothering with the Abbey. They believed his vile father's words and hard coin over his battered body and soft cries. They wouldn't help him.)
And he would pray, plead… Beg…
That in the morning he would wake to a world where he no longer had to dread each forenoon, wake to a world where he could look to his father's eyes without worry, a world where he did not have to fear the wrath of his brothers…
Wake to a world where his family loved him.
He knew, even then, at the most tender of ages, that the life he prayed so longingly for was but a pipe dream, some childish fantasy destined to burn, blacken and char...
He knew that no matter what…
His father would never be anything more than a beast, hungry and vile, who would gleefully sink his teeth and claws and abhorrent words into his brothers, beat them black and blue with the flat of his palm or back of his hand in a blind rage powered by the alcohol and anger burning through his veins…
Only to later hold him close, cradle him gently, lay him bare, sink inside him and call him by a dead woman's name as he whispered his most sinful affections.
He knew that his brothers would never, never love him… How could they? After all, they blamed him for the death of their mother, their real mother, not the horrid witch of a stepmother their father had all but dragged to his bed, hissing and spitting like a cat.
No, they held him accountable for the cursed state of their sorry excuse of a family and saw fit to reimburse the pain and suffering anointed to them by the beast their father had become, back unto him…
He knew they were suffering; they were all suffering; the cycle of sickness was unending and unforgiving.
And he was weak…
Try as he may, even so young, even so hurt, he could never truly bring himself to hate his brothers. They were victims, just as he. Their anger and hatred and wrath were misdirected yes… But appropriate given their predicament.
His brothers were old enough to remember a time before their mother's death, when their father was bright eyed and happy, where he would run his hands through his brother's hair and laugh…
Before their father turned to the bottle, to smoke and powder.
He had no memories of those happy days… There were no merry breakfasts in his memories, no gentle smiles or pats on the head, no Yuel mornings by the fire, no planting parties in the garden, no afternoon teas or gala dances…
Rather, breakfast was always eaten alone or in tense silence. Eye-contact was avoided at all costs, and if he could help it, he would keep everyone at arm's length... Yeul was an excuse to stay locked behind a door and the only time he ever ventured out into the garden was to hide…
He knew no joy or merriment… Not like his brothers did…
If anything, all he knew was desperate to escape this life…
The life of pain and fear, the life his father had created during his descent to the bottom of the bottle…
Meanwhile his brothers so very longingly wished to return to the life they once had… A life of normality and family and childish bliss. Where the world could be put on hold for a little while longer and things mattered a little less...
As far as he knew, only his prayers were answered…
However, this life, the life he had received in exchange for the life he escaped, was hardly his choice.
In his dreams, in his prayers… He was what was then home.
He woke every morning and ate breakfast with his brothers and father. Sometimes a strange woman would be seated opposite his father and sometimes a not so mean stepmother. They would talk and smile and everything was good.
He was taught by kind tutors in his dreams, they never spoke down to him, or scolded him for silly, simple mistakes and he did well in school, but whenever he began struggling, he could always turn to his brothers because they knew mostly everything, but if there was something even they didn't know, then they would all march to their father's office and ask him, because father knew absolutely everything.
His not so mean stepmother would read him bedtime stories and listen to him talk about his day as she did whatever it was stepmothers did. Though sometimes his not so mean stepmother was replaced by the same strange woman who would take the seat across from father.
She never spoke, and Treavor could never remember her face...
In his dreams he would play with his brothers, sometimes in the halls, even though their father told them not to, but even if he caught them he couldn't help but smile and ruffle their hair before sending them outside.
His brothers were kind in his dreams, they would sit with him and help with his homework. They would listen to him chatter about his day and sometimes, if their not so mean stepmother or the strange woman were to busy, they would read him bedtime stories…
Things were good in his dreams… Just like his brothers told him they were before he came a ruined their perfect life.
He would pray for his dreams to become his waking reality...
They told him that he had been on the Tricksters doorstep when they found him. And had they not, he surely would have died.
Had he stayed there any longer…
He had never asked for the life they had given him… But was he grateful? Yes... Oh stars yes, eternally.
They had given him a second chance at life.
His prayers, in the most roundabout way, had been answered at long, long last…
This was his life.
This was his life…