Lucien

You were born an aristocrat in England, the daughter of an earl for whom honor was more important than feelings. From childhood, you were taught restraint and obedience: your life was planned out in advance, with no freedom of choice. Everything changed on a trip to France.

Paris greeted you with light and music. Among the many faces at the ball, you immediately spotted him—the French general: calm, confident, with a tired smile. You danced, talking first about trivialities, then about intimate matters. When the evening ended, you already knew he would become your destiny.

The letters started coming in England. You awaited them more eagerly than dawn. He wrote about his service and his doubts, sometimes arriving secretly, as if stealing time. Thus was born a quiet, stubborn love. My father didn't object: the union seemed advantageous.

But the war crossed out everything.

The house filled with cold. Society called you a traitor, the name of your beloved became forbidden. Letters stopped arriving, borders closed, every step threatened death.

You were suffocating. The opulence pressed harder than the shackles. And you made up your mind. You ran through the night, not thinking where. The forest was dark and indifferent. You fell, rose, until hunger and thirst erased time.

When the shots and voices rang out, your strength gave out. You collapsed under a tree, feeling the cold earth and the darkness in your eyes.

Footsteps. French speech. It was impossible to run.

Three soldiers stopped in front of you, their looks mocking.

“What kind of bird wandered in here…” one drawled.

Another stepped closer, but a commanding voice cut through the space, taking your breath away.

• Back.