Day-Lynx (EDITING)

Mr. Clam Lies in Thirteen

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[MR. CLAM'S POV]

"Dad, you're back!"

The hunting sack slips from Mr. Clam's grip and falls with a thud near the cottage's battered door. At Aliska's hug around his waist, a comforting warmth spreads in his chest—more than the sunset's heat—also warding away the aches and pain throughout his limbs. His smile stretches wider as he hoists his youngest daughter into his arms and twirls her around. "What have you been doing all day, huh? Why do you smell like a whitetail deer?" He pretends to gag, tempting Aliska to slap his back as she giggles.

"I've been rolling in the snow all day." She turns her head to meet her brother's drowsy gaze as he lumbers out of the kids' room.

But after his eyes land on Mr. Clam, his body becomes as stiff as a corpse.

Mr. Clam's smile fades into a frown. He gently puts Aliska down and pats her back, ushering her into the kids' room. After her giggles disappear through the door, Mr. Clam stares flatly at his middle son. "Didn't I remind you to stay inside? Why didn't you listen?" A sigh leaves his lips at how even Milton smells like the outdoor snow and dead leaves.

They must have had played hide and seek under Borealm's snow again. Or maybe they had fed the hungry snow hares.

"The sky is clear today, Dad." Milton's voice shakes as if someone is messing around within his throat. "We've already helped Mom too."

"Opus just died there, Milton." It takes all of Mr. Clam's self-control to not palm his face with his blood-scented gloves. "There are still lots of traps around. And not all beasts hide in their dens during the winter. What if something happens when I'm not around?"

Milton replies with a scoff. "I'm almost twenty. Besides, it's not like we went to the heart of Borealm. Just the edge of it." Milton zips back to the kids' room, with pure defiance brightening his eyes. "For an experienced grown-up, you do worry too much, Dad."

When the door slams shut with a groan, Mr. Clam's heart sinks.

He collapses on the dining chair, leaving the hunting sack next to it. Milton's words echo like a curse in his ears.

Pucca is twenty-three, Milton is nineteen, and Aliska is seven. Should I not worry about them so much? Why couldn't I be like Da, who didn't mind much about me back then?

Scratching his coarse, snow-covered stubble, Mr. Clam leans against the chair and closes his eyes. But before his muse can get deep enough, a soothing womanly voice melts his trance away.

"Milton said you got upset again for their adventure in Borealm today." Two warm hands massage through his shoulders and manage to clear away all the tension they bear. Even when Lucian's fingers have started to wrinkle and bend, her touch is still everything he needs after a long day.

He almost forgets that he's on a dining chair, not a mattress.

Mr. Clam slowly shrugs out of his bear-fur coat, and Lucian takes the cue by hanging it on the back of his seat. "I was," he murmurs. "They shouldn't go there, Lucian. There are still too many traps around."

If Lucian only chuckles, Mr. Clam might mistake her as an angel. Her words, however, are always as sharp as the daggers of a hunter. "You can always say that, dearest man, but we both know it isn't the real reason why you won't let your kids wander around." A chill rocks Mr. Clam's spine as he imagines his wife curling up her know-it-all smirk behind his back. "You don't want them to see it, do you?"

Mr. Clam straightens his back and shirks away from Lucian's grip, clambering off the chair weakly. He gulps down several times at Lucian's judging gaze.