little french boy. ➵ lashton ✔

six.*

)yes six is six in french but not how we pronounce it)

)also i am so tired and very ill so updates may be in doubles???)

)eW MY COUGHING IS SO GROSS OMfG)

Luke sat in the corner of his cell. Large, metal bars prevented his escape, although he wasn't planning on it anyway.

Tears ran down his dirtied cheeks. He'd been in the dungeon for two days, Sir Ashton had not so much as glanced into the dungeon to see how exactly Luke was faring.

Luke was reverting back to his home language as well, losing what tiny bits of English he'd learned and having it replaced with some frantic French chaos.

"Se il vous plaît, Monsieur," Luke begged every time a guard would pass by, earning him another jab in the ribs with a long rod that he couldn't see.

He whimpered at the stabbing pain, but relaxed after a while, not wanting to cry anymore.

"What did you do?" A voice asked.

It was a familiar voice, one of warmth and kindness, but also of fear.

A blindfold he hadn't even acknowledged was thrown to the floor, and he saw Clarissa staring down at him.

"Infraction," Luke shrugged, learning the word and remembering it from the guards saying it so many times.

Clarissa sighed, and began to undo Luke's manacles.

"We don't have much time," Clarissa muttered under her breath, hearing the heavy footsteps of a guard decreasing his distance to the French boy and his rescuer.

"Let's go," she whispered, grabbing Luke's trembling hand and pulling him along, "we have to get you out of here."

Luke followed, not understanding most anything at the moment. He stumbled when Clarissa would yank him forward, slowing them down.

"Come on," she groaned, dragging Luke along through the dark, wet corridors of the dungeon.

Luke, with his long legs and big feet, was in a dilemma as he tripped along behind Clarissa. Suddenly, a strobe of light passed across Luke's pale face and he cringed, having not seen such pure, bright light in days.

Clarissa was soon yanking Luke through the small alcove and then he was in Ashton's throne room, where he'd been arrested.

"Pourqoui sommes-nous ici?" Luke asked, earning a loud 'shhh!' from Clarissa.

They tip-toed over the regally designed carpet and under the chandelier that Luke thought had at least one hundred lights, if not more.

A door behind them began to slide open with a loud creak and Clarissa pulled Luke behind a bookshelf, both of their breathing extremely fast and pulses racing.

Luke watched in horror as a book was plucked from the other side of the shelf, revealing Luke's terrified blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Ashton boomed, walking around the shelf to catch sight of Clarissa and Luke.

"As if my killing your husband wasn't enough," he smirked at the woman.

Luke knew that this was how women were often treated in the castle, they were treated with the utmost disrespect and were usually used for nothing but their bodies. Clarissa was considered lucky to care for the horses.

"Arrêtez, Monsieur Ashton!" Luke squeaked. A hand came down upon Clarissa's heart-shaped face and she fell to the floor, clutching her cheek and glaring up at Ashton.

Luke whimpered, having been taught pacifism his entire life. He'd never known war, not until now.

"Ashton, se il vous plaît," Luke begged, "me frappe, pas elle!"

Sir Ashton seemed to consider this for a moment, before he grabbed Luke away from Clarissa. "He's mine. Not yours."

Luke was taken upstairs by the tough grip of Sir Ashton's strong hands and thrown on Ashton's bed.

A riding crop was presented.

//

Luke was allowed to go back to his own bedroom once Ashton was finished.

The first thing he did was go straight to the basin, tears streaming down his bloodied face. He filled up the tub and lowered himself down. Long red stripes decorated his back and stomach, making Luke hiss when the water touched them.

Luke wasn't one to talk to himself much-because he rarely had anything to say-but as he washed himself he sang, trying to alleviate the pain.

Luke knew that there would never be a song to lift away his pain.

//

Luke traveled through the castle, trying to avoid Ashton. He saw the servants staring, and he heard them whispering about how Sir Ashton had taken a riding crop to his beautiful, shy French boy.

Luke also tried to avoid most of the male servants. They were usually jealous of Luke for getting such a special treatment from the king, but now they knew that they could push Luke around however they wished.

"Hey! It's the French boy!" A gruff voice shouted. Suddenly, Luke's arms were seized and he was thrown to the floor.

He cried out in pain when a boot pressed against his head, holding him down.

They took turns spitting on him.

"Stupid French boy," one smirked, kicking him in the ribs.

He screamed out a few choice words in French and scrambled away until he found himself wedged in a tight corner.

"Luke?"

Luke flinched at the voice he'd heard swearing at him just the night before.

Two hazel eyes peered down at him and a hand was offered.

"Come here, beautiful."

//

hey vicky you're oh so icky just the thought of being around you makes me oh so sicky - chip skylark