Chapter 303: The Right to Be Angry
Chapter 302: The Right to Be Angry
Lyria’s POV
Why was he behaving this way?
Why was he asking me this?
Though the punishments affected me, they did not affect him. They were inflicted upon my body, not his. So why was he still so angered? Why did he sound as though he carried some part of the burden himself?
"The p-punishments are f-for me t-to carry, not you," I told him honestly. "I f-fail to u-understand why you w-would be angry."
He was quiet after that.
The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of the wind passing through the trees and the soft lapping of the lake against the shore.
I watched him.
His jaw tightened.
His hand, which had moments ago rested so naturally at his side, slowly curled into a fist.
For a brief and rather alarming moment, I wondered if he felt the urge to strike something.
"We are friends now, are we not?" he asked at last.
I blinked at the sudden question.
"I w-would think so," I replied.
He nodded slowly.
"There was a young boy in my territory," he began.
My brow furrowed.
I did not understand what this had to do with our conversation, but I remained silent and allowed him to continue.
"He was around eighteen years of age when I discovered what had been happening to him," he said quietly. "One of the vassal families had taken him in as a servant—though, in truth, slave would have been the more appropriate term. They claimed he was paying off a debt owed by his family."
His expression darkened.
"A debt that had remained unsettled for over fifty years."
I frowned.
"How c-could a debt r-remain for so long?"
"Because it was never truly a debt," he replied.
The bitterness in his voice startled me.
"The boy’s father had once worked as a coachman. One day, he had been tasked with driving the wife of this particular lord to a destination of her choosing. She instructed him where to go. He obeyed and they went alone without guards, just the two of them."
He paused.
"It was later discovered that the location she had visited belonged to another man."
I stared.
"He was her lover," Lucian said simply.
Oh.
"The coachman remained outside as instructed. He knew nothing of their relationship. He knew nothing of why she had wished to visit that place. He merely did his duty."
His voice became softer.
"But something went wrong."
The wind stirred the edges of my cloak.
"The lover killed the woman and, shortly afterward, took his own life."
I felt a chill crawl down my spine.
"The coachman heard the disturbance and rushed inside, but by then it was already too late. He was the only one at the scene of the crime too who was alive."
Lucian’s expression hardened.
"The husband, grieving and desperate for someone to blame, decided that the coachman had been responsible."
"That is a-absurd," I said before I could stop myself.
He looked at me.
"Yes," he agreed quietly. "It was."
He looked away toward the lake.
"He ruined the man’s life. He used his influence to ensure the coachman could find no other employment. He harassed him. Beat him. Humiliated him. And eventually, the coachman died."
I swallowed.
Lucian’s gaze returned to mine.
"Then he turned his attention to the coachman’s son."
My chest tightened.
"He began abusing the boy when the child was seven years old. By the time I discovered him, he had spent over a decade believing that his suffering was something he deserved."
He was silent for several moments.
Then he asked quietly,
"This may sound like a tale, Your Highness, but who do you blame in this situation?"
I stared at him.
"O-obviously the h-husband," I said immediately. "The c-coachman did h-his best. Why should h-he be punished? He d-did not know what w-was happening b-between his mistress and h-her lover. And if s-she had taken guards, p-perhaps she would have survived."
I could feel my breathing quicken.
"A-and why is the son b-being punished for s-something he had n-no hand in?" I asked.
My voice rose as I spoke.
Lucian smiled.
"Do you see?" he asked softly.
I frowned.
"S-see what?"
"Do you see how much more angered you are than I am?"
I blinked.
"W-what?"
"You heard a story," he said. "A story about strangers whom you have never met. And yet you are angry. You are offended on behalf of that child."
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
"Do you see how much compassion you already feel for him?" he continued.
I swallowed.
"W-what are you g-getting at?"
"The fact," he said quietly, "that you heard this story only moments ago, and already you are upset."
He took a step closer, shortening the distance between us.
"Then what of me?"
His voice was softer now.
"I see everything that happens to you."
Another step.
"It happens close to me."
Another.
"I dine with those responsible for your suffering."
I could hear my own heartbeat.
"So what makes you think I have no right to be angry on your behalf?" he asked me. "What makes you think I have no right to be even more angered than you?"
I understood now.
He had not told me that story because he wished to discuss justice.
He had told me because he wished for me to understand him.
To understand why he was angry.
Why he cared.
I lowered my gaze.
"I-it is my burden t-to bear," I said quietly. "I understand now why y-you would be angry. Perhaps e-even more than me. But this is n-not yours to handle. You need not—"
"I need not concern myself with the fact that you get hurt in my presence while I am powerless to do anything?" he asked.
I froze.
The temperature of his voice had changed.
It was not loud.
Not even close.
But it was cold.
Cold enough that I instinctively stepped back.
He stepped forward.
The distance I had created vanished and I was forced to look at him once more. To lock gazes.
His expression was unlike anything I had ever seen on his face. It was not anger, no, this looked far more similar to pain.
"But what if I want to concern myself with it?" he asked. "What if I already do?"
His voice had become quieter.
"What if I already care so much that I cannot stop plotting ways to rid this world of those who hurt you? What if I want to gain enough power to ensure that no one ever hurts you again?"