Chapter one:

The silence rings in my ears as if it were a thousand Church bells. My heart is like a hot air balloon, rising in my chest. At last I have discovered the true meaning of death. It is an end we must all face. But great power is in the hands of the man who can trigger it without a weapon made for that purpose. That it is my work. I am Christian Savage. Some say my heart is made of stone, I say it is stone. I feel nothing and know nothing of sympathy, or of love. To me emotion is scolding hot water, set to burn the flesh of fools. I am not a fool and barely consider myself human.

The streets are mere putrid alleys amidst a labyrinth of it's cousins. In this City; that has no time or place, people travel by foot, or by pony and trap. All day long I hear the rattle of wooded wheels scuttling over cobbled paths. The straw set there is supposed to dull out the noise but it is useless, and rarely does as it is intended.

I am a small man, and my lack of height is further emphasised by my hunched back. If I were to tell of how I acquired such a hideous burden, it would only cause people to judge me further. They scowl at me, as if I am diseased and a direct descendant of apes. But they have no idea of the pain inflicted on me in childhood.

My mother married at the age of thirteen. She was sold to my Father when her parents were desperately poor. He treated her as though she were an animal. I recall, at night I would visit her and she would glare at me with a curious child-like despair. She was still a child at heart. Her hands were blistered, her knees scarred. Some were the scars of hard labour, others were marks my Father inflicted upon her.

"Come and sit with me, child…" Her once soft lips (now dry and cracked) whispered to me.

She would beckon me to her place on the floor where she slept. Her bed was a mere place on the ground and I recall asking her one evening as she held me tightly to her breast;

"Why does The Master make you sleep on the floor?" (I had always known my Father as the Master of the house. The truth of our relationship was not revealed to me until much later in life).

"I am a mere peasant girl, my love. I must respect his wishes. I am here at his disposal and if I do not do as he says, both you and I will have no shelter or money."

In that instant the sound of heavy footsteps echoed above. This was a sign for me to run. If he found me with mother, making her feel loved, there would be consequences; as there always had been. My heart raced. My mother kissed me warmly on the cheek, as tears streamed down her face. I ran to the cupboard, which was to the far left of us, and slammed the door shut, trying hard not to breath too loudly.

From within the cupboard I heard the footsteps draw closer. I heard the creaking oak steps that led down to my Mother's prison (the basement) and I knew my Father had come to find her. He was a tall, broad shouldered man. He reminded me, in strength, of an ox and his long dark hair, fell to his shoulders. His strong face, haunted my dreams.

I assumed he required my mother that evening but instead, I heard him say,

"Woman. Where is the child?", in his gruffest tone.

My heart stopped or so it seemed.

"Where is the bastard!" He Shouted impatiently.

"I don't see him, sir. I don't know.." She said meekly.

A moment of enduring silence…and then the harsh, sharp sounds of my Father's fist hitting my Mother's cheek. She barely responded. She had learnt that crying out was of no use to her, no one would save her and it only caused my Father to become more angry.

"Where is the child?"

I could not hear what was said next; whether my mother had simply gestured to this door, I do not know. I began to hear my Father's footsteps approaching me and my heart raced. The giant oak door that separated us, was opened with little effort and as I looked up, I saw his cruel face staring coldly down at me.

"There you are…" He said, attempting a gentle, high pitched tone. "My boy! Come here to your Father and let him teach you what the true meaning of love is."

For some reason, that day I had found the courage to ignore him. But that was a grave mistake. He grabbed me by the scruff and dragged me out of the cupboard, my legs dragged shamefully across the ground. I had lost all use of them and I was there, at his disposal. He threw me before my Mother and beat me. It was the first time I heard my Mother cry aloud. It seemed the pain he inflicted upon me was more painful to her then any fist of his that hit her chest. I did not know whether this was because she had grown used to it, or because she loved me more then herself.

My life until the age of Seven continued in this same, cruel way and my existence was pure luck. There to me was no such thing as fate. It was a mere hope, for those without hope in their lives. Love was beyond this world, perhaps with God, but no human could offer me such an emotion. I have been put in this world, compelled to steal to survive. If I were an honest man, I would die. Although the prospect of death is often enticing…But survival is rooted within me and there is some reason for me to be here. There is some reason, that I am still yet to discover.

At present, I sit crouched on the streets and watch all forms of life pass. For a moment I watch two wealthy people, leaving the safety of their carriage. The man looks with disgust at his surroundings; the crowded streets and the mutants, like me, who crouch in filth, and in rags. He looks to me and for an instant our stares lock together. His expression is one of disgust and anguish. I, on the other hand, look upon him with pity. I pity that he is unable to see the beauty I see in him, but I also feel disgust at his complete absences of gratitude for being born into wealth, to have countless gold coins surrounding his bed, and society looking at him with utter envy. He is a tall man, with long dark, silk hair. He is clad in silk, a belt at his waist, buckle made of gold.

I observe that an innocent, soulless woman follows close behind. She looks to be eighteen years of age, and I am convinced that she is his daughter, for the man's hair is lined with grey, and I see many signs of age on his flesh. I am thirty-six, or so far as I have counted. My Father told me I was seven when I left, and I have counted the years since, by listening to people, and guessing time. Perhaps, I am young or old. Time is complex for me to understand. But I look much older than the stranger. I have a wrinkled, worn face, and my hair is almost all grey. I have a beard, that I have tried to shave with stone. It left my face scarred and the hair remains on my cheek. I imagine that I am hideous sight to look at. My skin so lined with years of filth, that my flesh is hard to look at beneath. The last my flesh touched water, must have been when I was a boy, when I was allowed shelter, but shelter shared with the brutal beast that was my Father.

Just as the past enters my mind like a mist, crawling into vivid existence, I smell a sweet scent, I cannot recognise. It reminds me of the fields I walked through, after my long walk to this town as a boy. It smells like the things that grow in fields, I know not what they are, but they are beautiful. Before me stands the young woman. She is pale, her hair lay like long, yellow silk on her shoulders and her green eyes glow in the light of the sun, which seems to have arrived with her.

"Why, sir, you seem sad! Why such an expression?"

She is a fool, I think. I am disappointed. Why does she expect happiness when I am here soaking in filth? She is so naïve that I begin to feel that I hate her. My skin burns with hatred, as it had with my Father.

"Lady…" I consider. Have I the right to speak? Wealth. It is evil.

"Do not be shy…" She says, reaching out her delicate, pale hand to me.

"Madam! Do hurry along…" I hear a deep voice bellow.

I look past the girl, and the man is waiting impatiently for her at the carriage door, looking at me with suspicion, and eager to get this innocent creature away from me. I look to the girl, she looks frightened at first but then I realise she was simply startled. She turns to me and smiles.

"It was lovely to meet you…Sir."

My heart stops. Nobody has ever referred to me as 'Sir', I feel important. This new title has given me a sense of pride, an emotion I do not recognise.

"And you…" I consider. "Lady."

She smiles once again and I feel a sense of warmth, deep within. It is as though my heart has come alive, a flame had been ignited and it seems it will never leave.

"You are a very curious creature…rather friendly, more so then I expected." She admits.

The man approaches and I like a mouse, am afraid. I shift on my feet and realise they are numb from crouching. I fall backwards and am on my back, helpless. I see The man drag the girl to the carriage, angrily telling her off as he goes.

"You should not speak to men like that", "He will harm you", "He is no better then an animal…" and so the insults continued.

The girl responded: "An animal is meek, they should be respected", "You are not in charge of me.." and so on.

I am for that evening, confined to thought. I see the face of The girl when I stare at the night before, in sleep and in mind. She is forever with me, she so gentle and so far from my own cruel existence…and then I return to my own brutal reality. Men pass me, kick me and I lie like an animal, taking every hit without complaint.

I search for food, scavenge rubbish and drink rain water. Then I see a young girl pass with a loaf of bread in hand. She looks so beautiful, so innocent. She looks around seven, the age I was when I was left to fend for myself. I attempt to beg her for some for a fear an attack is too brutal on such an innocent creature.

"Will you spare me some of tha' loaf, lady?" I ask, from a distance, crouching on the damp cobble.

She looks at me fearfully. "I must get this to my Mother…" She responds, meekly.

"..A little?" I say.

"My mother is sick, dying…" She says, beginning to weep.

I feel nothing. I feel I want to respond "My mother was a child, beaten to death…" But instead, I say "Then I shall die."

She approaches me and for a minute I feel she might be handing me a small morsel, but instead she walks towards me, shakes her head and runs off to her mother. I feel that I am so hungry, that hunger itself is a path to death. If only my body were more patient, but I haven't eaten for days. I start to bite my hand and for a minute my mind imagines it is a fine piece of meat…but then reality hits, and the hard bone of my fist reminds me of the truth.

I cry out…

"Why?" The mere question draws tears that I do own. I bleed silent tears, until God bless, a monk passes. He approaches me…

"My dear boy, why do you cry?"

His friendly, wrinkled face looks down at me with sympathy. His white hair surrounds his head like a nest of dove's feathers.

"Father…hungry…" I groan helplessly, the words barely incomprehensible.

"I will fetch you some ale, and bread if you wish for it…"

I smile and feel as though I am dreaming. The haze of exhaustion hanging over me, giving me a dull sense of the world.

The monk rushes away, waddling as though he has eaten more then he needs, and I feel for an instant that he has abandoned me. But he soon returns. I am so weak that he is forced to hold the ale to my lips and pour it down my throat. He cradles me like a child, until eventually I stir. He hands me a thick slice of bread and I rapidly hold it to my mouth and consume it greedily.

"Thank you…" I whisper, as I fall into a deep sleep.