POV Emanuelle
My name is Emanuelle, and I recently turned nine years old. Today, my younger brother is leaving home for some fortress, where he will be trained by an Elder.
I don't know how to put it into words. I love him deeply, but it isn't romantic. It's something else, something profound that I still don't know how to name. Maybe in the future I'll find a way to describe it. For now, I only know it's not the same kind of love Mama had for Papa.
I want to explain why I've grown so attached to him, even more than to Anthony, our older brother.
Even before Elian was born, when I was only two, I could sense Mama was always sad. My memories are hazy, but I'll never forget the muffled argument I once overheard between her and Papa: Mama would never be able to have more children. I didn't fully understand the weight of those words, but I remember the tears running down her face as she said it. I was small, but I already knew tears always hid something painful.
Shortly before my third birthday, I heard Mama say she was pregnant. That day etched itself into me: her face, once dim, lit up as if someone had kindled a flame in her chest. I was happy too, but at the same time… jealousy grew inside me. I kept asking myself silently, "What if Mama abandons me and only loves the baby?" That thought haunted me like a shadow for a long time.
Then one day, Elise came to our home. Her expression was grave. I heard her say the baby was dead. Elian was due in just a few weeks. I remember Mama's despair, saying she wouldn't remove the baby, that if need be… she would die with him. I didn't fully understand what dying meant, but from Papa's silence and the heavy look in Elise's eyes, I knew it was something terrible.
A few weeks later came my third birthday. Mama smiled at me, trying to hide her grief. I knew it wasn't the same smile she had when she first learned of the pregnancy. The party was simple, as always — we were poor, there was no luxury. But that day I received something I still hold in my heart. Mama sewed, with her own hands, a rag doll. I remember the rough texture of the fabric against my little fingers, the faint scent of herbs that clung to everything she touched. I hugged it tightly, and in that moment, despite all the fear and sadness around us, I was happy.
A few days later, Mama began to feel sharp pains in her belly. Her screams echoed through our small house, cutting the air. Papa ran, his heavy steps pounding the wooden floor, to fetch Elise. The smell of sweat and smoke from the hearth mixed with the voices of panic.
Anthony, who was already six, stayed beside me the whole time, trying to calm me while Mama screamed behind the closed door. Elise rushed in with Papa, leaving us outside. All I wanted was to see my little brother born. But the air in the house was so heavy even I, still so young, could sense the doubt on my parents' faces.
Nearly an hour later, I heard crying. But it wasn't the usual cry, the kind that announces life and hope. It was sharp, strained, scraping at my bones. Frightened, I thought: "Was I born like that too? Is he being hurt, even after being born?" I quickly pushed the thought away — our parents never laid a hand on us.
Then Papa's voice cut through the screams. His tone was different: terrified. I had never heard fear like that from him. He shouted that Mama was dying. My heart shrank, and tears came at once. I ran toward the room, but Anthony held me back. He hugged me tight, and I realized he was trembling too. We were both drowning in the same fear: losing our mother.
I can't say I blamed the baby in that moment, but I'm sure I didn't. Not yet.
The minutes dragged on like an eternity. Finally, Papa came out. His face was weary, dripping with sweat, but his voice carried relief when he said Mama was safe.
"Can I see Mama?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Not yet, Manu. She's sleeping… and your little brother too. Wait for them to wake."
I nodded, against my will. It was Papa speaking, and I had to obey.
It took almost three long hours. Hours full of anxious thoughts I couldn't push away. But when I finally entered the room, all that weight vanished.
Mama was pale, exhausted, but alive. She held a tiny bundle in her arms. He looked so fragile, so small, I felt enormous beside him. His eyes were still closed, and I didn't yet know they would be golden like Papa's. But his hair… his hair was the same as mine and Mama's, red like gentle fire. He was beautiful. Soft. Untouchable. That was the first time I heard his name: Elian.
The name carried a meaning I couldn't grasp yet, but it sounded far too strong for such a little baby.
The years went by, and with them my bond with Elian only deepened. Maybe it was natural — or maybe I just let myself be captured by the affection I felt. I couldn't tell if it was because he always sought me out, or because I needed him near. I only knew we were inseparable.
When he turned three, Elise asked Mama to teach us magic. Of course, Mama wasn't a mage, only knew a few basic spells, but it was enough to start. Anthony, who had no magical affinity, preferred to help Papa in the fields.
That was when I noticed something: Elian was more skilled than me. Maybe I should've felt jealous, but instead… I felt proud. Still, I didn't want to be left behind. I kept practicing, kept trying.
At first, we had to recite incantations to make the spells work. But little by little, Elian began to conjure without a single word. I tried to copy him, but it never worked. My frustration grew so much that I avoided him for a few days. Until Elian came to explain, in his strange way… he spoke of "molecules" and things that sounded alien, full of letters and numbers he drew on the ground. I understood none of it, but he insisted I learn. And, after some time, I finally managed to summon water without uttering a spell.
That was when I realized: he wasn't just my little brother. Elian was becoming something greater. And even if I never admitted it aloud, I wanted to grow alongside him.
The years passed, and he and I grew closer still. Of course, we didn't progress much, since Mama only knew basic magic. When he turned five, I was eight — I had celebrated my birthday just fifteen days earlier.
Papa gave him a grimoire. Elian, as always, tried to refuse. He refused many things — even food, sometimes — and I never understood why. Then Papa said we had all contributed to buy that gift. Elian only accepted when I teased: "Who knows, maybe you'll become a great mage and turn me into a lady of the court?"
I said it laughing at the time, but he took it seriously. He accepted the grimoire, and from then on our training grew more intense. Elian understood the words and symbols far better than I did. He began to teach me, and though it stung my pride — I was the older sister, after all — I accepted it.
One morning at breakfast, Papa called us to go to the village. In eight years of life, I had never been there, and I was excited. Before we left, Mama gave me some coins, saying if I saw something I liked, I could buy it. I held onto them carefully, dreaming of what I might find.
The trip was long, but my heart beat fast with anticipation. I kept imagining what I would do first. But when we finally arrived, my excitement vanished.
The village was poor. Poorer than our own family. From the top of the cart, I saw children covered in dust, eating hardened clumps of dirt. At first, I thought it was some strange ingredient for bread — only later Mama explained it wasn't that at all. It was hunger.
While Papa unloaded the sacks of wheat, my eyes were drawn to a small stall with tangerines piled high. Their orange glow enchanted me, and I thought: If I run quickly, I'll be back before anyone notices.
But I never had the chance. Two boys grabbed me and began to drag me away. I tried to scream, but a rough hand clamped over my mouth. No sound came out. Panic swallowed me whole, and I fought with all my strength, but no one helped. Everyone pretended not to see.