^^River and his song^^

**keep in mind that this novel takes place in the late 1700s**

Hey, guys!! This story has been stuck in my head for far too long, so I decided to finally put it onto paper (or a computer screen ). Enjoy!! <3

'Time doesn't heal anything, it just teaches us how to live with the pain.'

Chapter 1
River's POV

"Worthless!"

"Weak!"

"Runt!"

My father's harsh words rang through my head as my legs dragged me past homes and forestry. My back bent forward, years of beating weighing down on my shoulders as the food in my arms did the same. A loose pebble along the path laid unnoticed by my eyes as my feet caught and body lurched forward to the cold dirt below me. Bread and vegetables flew from my arms, rolling across the ground and caking in grime.

A groan escaped my mouth, both in distraught over the fallen food and the pain of my bloodied hands and knees. 

I slowly lifted myself up, hissing as I went until I felt the light tap of an object on my shoulder. My head whipped to the side, catching a small boy in the distance with a handful of pebbles. My eyes grew considerably, fear etching into my bones as my body began to shake.

Why?

I reached for the brown material bag that previously held my food and shielded it across my face, hands trembling against the thick material. My breath grew thicker by the minute, waiting for the pain I knew was to come. Yet, nothing but silence met my shallow breaths.

I gradually lowered the bag, allowing only for my eyes to be uncovered in case the boy was growing clever in his antics. Though no boy could be seen as I eyed where he used to be. I pivoted my head, eyeing my surroundings. My brows knitted and lip pulled against my teeth as I held the bag tightly to my face. 

After a few minutes, I let out a sigh, nearly falling to my hands in relief. I quickly lifted myself from the ground and took to collecting the fallen food. I could only hope I was not to be late to supper. For father would surely hang me if he returned home to an empty table and an absent son.

My hands grabbed at sticks of celery, shoving them into the woven bag as peered across the pathway for any other lost food. Once I saw there to be none, I continued on. 

The wind brushed softly across my cheek, pushing my long hair into my face. I was long overdue for a haircut, a realization I came to weeks ago. Though I had been pushing it off, growing sick by the idea of having to see my own reflection in the mirror. For the face that always gazed back at me was so shallow, so sickly-looking that I would always turn immediately to erase the horrid image from my memory. Yet, each year I was forced to peer at it once again. Like an endless cycle of pain and distraught.

My feet strode against dirt and stone as I stepped up the stairs to a home I long since loathed to return to. I looked down at my feet as not to make eye contact with my neighbors as I turned the knob to my house and hurried inside. I expected a scream-fest from my father so when I was met with silence, a sigh of relief fell passed my tightened lips.

I dropped the food in the kitchen before hurrying to my room for a change of clothes.

My feet dragged past broken wood as I entered the small closet that I had long since labeled my own. My father had put me there from the moment I could walk, after all, it was the closest room to the kitchen. The place where I was to spend most, if not all, of my day, slaving away. It was set as a reminder of who I was, a mere slave whose only good quality was my ability to cook and clean. If, even that, was a positive quality to hold.

A small cot laid in the center of the small room, allowing only room for itself and a chipped mirror in the corner, covered in a sheet so to not be seen. I unbuttoned my shirt, dropping the dirty material to the floor and replacing it with a cleaner shirt. I peeked down at my pants, covered in a thin layer of brown but with no alternative, I was stuck wearing it until I could get to soaking it tonight before bed.

I placed the dirty shirt into a bucket before heading out of my room to the kitchen where the bag of food still laid. A small smile pulled to my lips as I lit the stove and pulled a pot out from the cupboard. I began cutting up the celery and carrots as the water boiled, peeling the potatoes as the other vegetables sat in a small bowl on the side. And when the water gurgled in distress, I took to sprinkling all my work into it. 

Surely there were better soups to be found but with what money we had, it was going to be the best we could afford. Bread and soup.

I rested my head on my hands, watching as the soup set. 

With all the horrid jobs in the world, being forced to cook daily was not something to complain about. I was thankful. My father did not treat me well, but there were worse conditions like the orphaned children at the edges of the road that I passed daily. They could only wish for food and a roof over their heads. I had both and for that, I was thankful.

It was while watching the bubbling water and cooking vegetables that my mind wandered to what it always did. To my mate. I had not met my mate yet, though my mind could not help but dream of the person my mate was sure to be. A person to love me. For with all given to me in my short sixteen years of my life, love was not one.

Would it feel as soothing and heartwarming as cooking?

The concept of a mate was often spoken among my classmates. In school, the boys and girls would constantly discuss amongst themselves who would have the better looking or stronger mate.

Why did they care how strong their mate was or what their face looked like? As long as the person loves you as you love them shouldn't that be enough?

Sometimes I wondered if those around me saw the world differently than me. I wondered how things like money, clothes, and good looks reigned over all else for them while all I had ever wanted was merely someone to love. Someone or something to save me from my loneliness, from the darkness I called my life.

Why did all the things people deemed valuable seem trivial and pointless to me?

Was I supposed to find all those materialistic desires grand and important?

There was only one thing I truly wanted, a mate.

But it seemed my one and only wish was as pointless and trivial as the materialistic things people seemed to cling to.

When I had finally gained enough courage to ask my father about my mate, he had told me it was idiotic to even think about. That I didn't have one and if I did she would take one look at me and reject me on the spot.

I remembered how I hid in my room all night, my head beneath pillows and thin sheets to muffle my cries. I had wept so much that my eyes had turned bloodshot and my throat so tender that it hurt to speak for weeks.

I had felt like I was in a haze of sorrow for months until my father had gotten so sick of my muffled cries and bloodshot eyes that he had whipped me until I had said I would stop being so selfish.

How I being in pain had any relation to the concept of being selfish was beneath me, but I had lied and said I would. Though I never did. My cries stopped, but the pain remained. I would forever be alone. One of the greatest fears man has ever experienced since Adam and Eve. Never having a companion, a lover, a friend. I would never have one who would love me and cherish me as I so very desired.

Worthless.

"River!" I heard my father's rough voice bellow through the house.

I wiped a few stray tears from my eyes before leaving the protection of the kitchen.

"Yes, father?" I asked, approaching him. He threw his coat across the room along with his shoes with a loud thump, causing me to jump slightly.

"Clean that up," he motioned his chin in the direction of the scattered objects he had just hurled across the room, "and make my food."

"Yes, father."

He grunted and wobbled upstairs.

He seems unsteady. Did he drink outside the house?

Despite all the horrid acts he had done to me, I had to care for him. He was a horrible, cruel man, but he was still my father. My own flesh and blood.

I scurried across the room, picking up discarded clothing and objects and placing them in their correct places before heading to the kitchen and finishing the food I had already started cooking. I took the stew off the stove and stirred it as I whiffed the delicious scent whispering around its open lid.

It smelled of fresh beef and a variety of different spices I had been experimenting with lately. Simply mouth-watering.

I took the ladle out carefully from the stew as not to spill the liquid as I blew and took a careful sip of it. It was diluted, with a slight taste of the carrots and celery inside. If only it would sit for a bit longer to soak in the vegetables but with the short amount of time to soak, the taste was bound to be weak.

"Is it done yet?!" my father hollered behind me. I jumped and almost fell off the small, wooden stool I was balancing on.

"Almost," I whispered. 

With my father, he was like a ticked off lion. Anything I said could set him off, so I took the liberty to not speak at all, or very little at the very least.

"You better hurry the fuck up!" I flinched at his harsh words.

"Y-yes, f-father." I stammered.

He grunted and placed himself in his usual seat at the head of the table.

I opened a cabinet and took out a large bowl and an even larger plate. I poured the soup into the bowl and placed it in the center of the plate and placed thick slices of bread around it in a circle. 

At least it looks pretty.

I turned around and placed the large dish in front of my father. He immediately gorged it down without even taking a minute to appreciate it and then once done got up and went upstairs, wobbling as he went.

I sighed.

What did I expect, a 'thank you'?

I laughed lightly to myself as I ran my fingers through my shoulder length hair. I really did need a haircut.

I guess tomorrow I'll set aside a few minutes in front of the mirror to cut my hair.

I shivered at the thought.

I hated looking in the mirror. I already knew what I looked like. Why bother making myself more depressed than I already was?

I raked my hand through my hair once more before lifting myself from the stool. I quickly ate the remaining food before cleaning the dishes and heading back to my room.

I closed the door softly as to not wake my father and locked it.

My father often mentioned removing the lock, saying how I didn't deserve privacy. How I was probably doing disgusting things in my room when no one was looking. I couldn't quite understand what he meant by disgusting things.

Did he think I slaughtered puppies during my free time? If so, I believed he was speaking more to himself than me.

My face was not one many would enjoy viewing, but surely it was not the face of one who slaughtered animals for sport.

I quickly changed into my worn-out nightgown that, through my many years of use, had faded from its once white color to a greasy yellow. I shivered beneath a thin layer of sheets and squeezed into a tight ball before falling into a deep sleep.