Chapter 85: The Refugee Camp
As we walked I couldn’t help when my mind flash to Luther’s story. Suddenly his behavior made perfect sense—the crazy gesticulation, the haunted look, the barely concealed venom in his voice. It was more than the incoherent rambling of a drunk. It was the weight of loss, the signature of a man stripped raw by grief and anger.
He had lost everything. His family together with his home life along with his reason for existing had been forcefully taken from him. And while Heather dismissed his words as nothing more than drunken ramblings, I couldn’t help but feel that there was more to it. His pain wasn’t some fleeting shadow; it was a wound that had been left open, festering into a hatred that burned just beneath the surface.
A righteous anger.
Heather reacted to his confusing rambling by mocking his statements but deep inside my mind refused to accept their foolishness. The wound from his loss developed into deep contempt that smoldered close to his surface.
A hatred that was justified.
It was also clear that this hatred was directed towards the household, one that I was a part of. One that had failed him and the guards who had assaulted his wife, the establishment that had turned its back on him and the monarch that sat comfortably in the golden halls while he fought to survive. How could he not hate us?
Swallowing, I tried to breathe through the guilt that settled in my chest but was finding it hard to. Did my actions make me better than the people who had chosen to avoid him? Although I did not actively make him suffer I kept silent about it so I participated in his suffering. In my comfort?
"You know it isn’t your fault right?" Heather asked me, "My lady?" She said nudging me by the arm.
I startled a little but turned to offer a wry smile at Heather, "Of course, I know that."