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It had been raining on the day that everything changed, and somehow, caught up in remembrance, the boy hadn’t paid time much mind as it slipped away, hadn’t noticed when the wind grew colder and winter crept in, turning the rains white. In truth, he hadn't granted his attention to much of anything, since then- and so on the day when the view from the parlor window afforded a glimpse of the mansion grounds painted white, the hard lines of stone and the plants in the garden left hidden under a fine dusting of snow, it came as a surprise. Another child might have been excited by the prospect of snowball fights, or possibly even sledding, but the boy who had been Damian Von Helson was too occupied by the argument taking place in the next room to much heed the weather.
“-months already!” That was Mr. Gambino. He, it seemed, had been keeping track of the time readily enough- counting down the days until the child that had taken up residence in his home was finally sent out as he’d demanded the very first night.
“Now, Johnny- be reasonable.” It was the same defense every time; he knew it by heart now. “If we send the boy out too soon, even with his name changed, even with his hair dyed, it will be a beacon to draw them. Have patience, old friend.”
“I’m out of patience!” came the words in response, an explosion of anger and frustration. “I want that thing out of my house, Edmund!”
Damian sighed, and ran a finger experimentally down the fogged glass of the window, watching the line that it left. He wondered absently whether it would have made a difference, were the two men to discover that he could hear every word they were saying. After a moment’s reflection, he came to the conclusion that it probably wouldn’t have.
Mr. Gambino, at least, seemed to find nothing at all the matter with letting the boy know how he felt.
* * *
Damian settled onto the plump sofa in the dining hall, closing his eyes as he lay his head against his arm and willing the wave of dizziness to pass. It came and went- a sign, he assumed, that whatever liquid they’d been giving him in his weekly shots wasn’t doing quite what it was meant to. Though the treatment was supposed to dull his teeth and curb his appetite, the boy was finding that normal food left him nauseated, and when he wasn’t sick, he was ravenously hungry.
It was for his own good, Edmund had assured him more than once in that gruff, distant way, and Damian supposed he was right. His mother had thought so, after all. Had believed it strongly enough to think it worth dying for: that thirsts like those in which his father indulged were not meant to be sated.
And if that wasn’t reason enough for the boy to persevere, nothing ever would be.
The dizziness passed in time, as it usually did, and Damian opened his eyes to the unusual, dancing play of lights that had taken over this room in the past several weeks. They came from the tiny sparkles glittering among the branches of the pointed evergreen in the corner, and the child watched them with eyes not quite human, wondering at the little baubles and gilded stars.
Christmas was coming; it came with the snow. He remembered that as though a fact from a fairy tale, some story of long ago and far away, a thing that had little bearing on his life.
He knew because his mother had given him a Christmas gift once, the year after little Louie had been born- the year before she’d left them for this cozy place among the humans. It had snowed that day, and she’d worn a woolen scarf, but her cheeks had been red with the cold anyway. The gift had been childish, a painted toy of wood, but he’d loved it dearly until frequent use had broken it at last.
And so, when the packages had begun appearing beneath the tower of shimmering green in the Gambino dining hall, brightly dressed with ribbons and paper of a whole rainbow of colors, the sight awakened in him memories of things long past. It brought to mind the feel of his mother's mittens, rough and warm, as she had pressed the little box into his hands; the look in her eyes, fond and attentive, as he'd worked the paper free; the little thrill of excitement when she'd whispered the words, "It's a gift, Damian. Merry Christmas."
And so he'd had to see.
The boy had waited until nightfall, counted the hours as they passed far beyond. He had crept ever so carefully from his own room- at the far end of the mansion from the place where Mr. Gambino and his own son slept- and into the dining hall, confident in the knowledge that everyone else was long abed. The sofa had served him well until the fit of dizziness had passed, and then- finally- Damian was free to approach the lovely tree decked with lights and baubles. Each present was lifted gently from its place, small fingers turning the tags one by one so that he could peer at the names written there.
He shouldn’t have been surprised- wasn't surprised, he told himself firmly. He'd only wanted to keep the disappointment from his face on Christmas day by knowing for certain. By knowing now. It wasn't as though Damian had actually thought that- that- that.
But all the same, Damian wasn't quite able to stop the little spike of hurt that gathered, bright and hot, to form a knot in his throat when he’d put the last package down. And he would recall, for every Christmas afterward, that in that moment he’d thought the golden-haired baby slumbering peacefully onward at his father's side was the luckiest boy alive.
~end~
(Author's Notes: It has been entirely too long since I wrote anything, and it shows. Uh. And somehow, this turned into a Christmas fic. I don't even know how that happened. It wasn't meant to be. -_-; )
Asidian · Sun Dec 16, 2007 @ 02:57pm · 0 Comments |
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