(Virginia, 1820)
Lucian was tall even then. He was intelligent but kept to himself, walking the gravel path into town with his eyes scanning his surroundings.
John Corvus had two rules he lived by: hard work and dedication. He never complained, never looked tired, never smiled. His face was like stone—expressionless. His raven-black hair had already begun to gray from sun and labor. Over the years, he had grown increasingly tiresome, relying more and more on Lucian.
From the age of ten, Lucian rose every morning at dawn to tend the livestock with his father. He worked the fields until his palms cracked and bled. He simply wrapped the wounds with a cloth, because that was what his father had taught him to do.
Annie Corvus was fragile. She had met John near the ocean when he sailed to America from Whitby, England, on his seventeenth birthday. From the moment he laid eyes on her at the docks, he knew she would be the one. Her chestnut hair and crystal-blue eyes captivated him. With nothing to offer her but his heart, he gave it anyway. Together, they built a farm in rural Virginia and started a family.
Lucian was eleven when his younger sister, Lilian, was born. She had inherited her father's green eyes and his mother's brunette hair. Lucian made it his mission to protect her at all costs. Every day for the next six years, he watched over her, shielding her from harm whenever he could.
Lucian rarely ventured into town; it was too crowded for him. But on rare occasions, his father would ask him to retrieve supplies. Lucian would reluctantly accept, dreading the journey. He'd walk his stallion out of the pasture and take his time before reaching the fences. The sun beat down on his beige hat, sweat clinging to his shirt and back. It was an exhausting, uncomfortable trip.
After three hours, he finally reached the edge of town. He dismounted, tied the reins to a post, removed his hat, and entered the store. A bell chimed overhead as he stepped inside. He scanned for the scythe and rifle his father requested.
The cashier was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, with soft white hair. Lucian found himself staring.
"Is it my hair?" the man laughed.
Lucian blinked. "No, sir. I'm… I'm sorry," he stammered.
The man smiled. "It's fine. I get that question often. When you've lived as long as I have, you start to get bored with simple things like hair."
Lucian furrowed his brow. His age? The man didn't seem that old.
"Well," the man continued after a pause, "I have the list your father requested. Everything should be in this bag." He huffed, placing a heavy sack on the counter. "Right here."
"Thank you, sir," Lucian said, nodding. He picked up the bag, sounded the bell as he left, and tied it to his horse's saddle. One boot in the stirrup, he swung over and began the quiet ride home.
The stables greeted him with the familiar smell of hay and animals, but something felt wrong. Lucian's eyes caught movement in the hay. He squinted and edged closer.
His heart sank. His ears rang as he dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His father lay limp among the straw, broken. He had fallen from the loft while reaching for a bucket of water, snapping his neck.
Lucian dragged him into his arms, sobbing. His sister's small voice trembled behind him.
"Is Father alright?" Lilian asked softly.
He shielded her from the sight. "Go get Mother, Lilian," he said, voice trembling.
Soon, Annie's shrill screams echoed from the house, carrying through the farm like a living thing. Three days later, they buried John Corvus. Annie wished only to hold him a few more times. Lucian's black tie hung loose around his neck, shoulders soaked with the tears of his mother and sister. He hadn't slept, hadn't stopped digging. Eight feet deep, three feet wide—the words repeated in his mind like a broken record.
He finally finished and stood, exhausted. Lilian looked up at him, eyes wide. His black hair fell over his face, and his dark eyes betrayed the storm inside. Lucian blamed himself for his father's death. If he had arrived sooner—or not gone at all—perhaps things would be different.
The farm struggled without John. The drought had lasted six months, crops were scarce, and famine gripped the town. Gravel paths turned to dust, grass withered, and everything felt desolate. Lucian sat on the porch, cigarette in hand, as Lilian approached.
"If you die, we'll have no one left to take care of us," she said, teasing but with an edge of truth.
He stubbed out the cigarette. "You're not wrong," he replied, shrugging.
Annie hadn't left her bed in weeks. When she did, it was brief, clutching letters from her late husband. She was a shadow wandering the house, lost in grief.
Lucian's boots clicked against the wooden floors as he approached his mother's room. He paused at the threshold, seeing only silence—a silence he had never heard before. She was gone. Annie had finally succumbed to grief, leaving this world to join John. Lucian hovered over her, chain of her late husband around his neck, brushing her forehead gently. He muffled his cries with his hand.
He shuffled down the stairs to see Lilian setting the table—three places. Always hoping their mother would join.
"Mother still won't eat, will she?" she asked.
Lucian shook his head. "She's… she's with Father now."
Lilian's expression was etched into his memory forever. She widened her eyes, tugged at her pigtails, and bit her lip. No tears came. She only squeezed his arm.
"Guess it's just you and me now, isn't it?"
Lucian rested his head gently against his sister's. "I guess so."