SITTING huddled by the unused fireplace, trembling hands hovering over days-old wood, struggling to retain a warmth that had already begun to seep through the cracks of their humble, one-room abode, a seven-year-old Lucien cast a hopeful gaze toward the front door, waiting with chilled breath for his father to finally, after days of being away from home, come sauntering through the doorway with a broad, self-satisfied smile on his face and a handful of candy as an apology for his absence. Usually, when the man was away on business — as he liked to call it — Lucien would spend that time with their friendly, empathetic neighbor. But she’d left over three days ago to visit her own family for the holidays, thus leaving the young demigod to fend for himself — at least until his wayward father returned. If he returned.
With shivers wracking his slim body and chapped lips chattering, he clenched and unclenched his stiff fingers, trying to get the blood flowing again.
“I REALLY HATE THIS TIME OF YEAR,” he mumbled into the silence, puffs of air disturbing the stillness of the night. Winters were usually brutal — because then he’d have no one to turn to for help. This must be how stray children, without family or home to call their own, felt. A house was no barrier against the cold when its only saving grace was the four walls that kept him hemmed in, a cold, lonely trap that he was afraid to leave.
Good or bad, this was his home.
Nothing but pain and hardship awaited him once he left those four walls behind.
Was he prepared for that?
Not in the least.
But perhaps one day, he would be.
