a/n; this chapter is strangely very dearly beloved to me, so comments would be appreciated! truthfully told most of this are moments of their life but each paragraph was crafted very carefully in the sense that it's like a knitted sweater or something so I would love comments (allegiance, you will always be special to me)

—

The days whizzed past. You quickly lost track of them, and the only indication of the fleeting weeks was the calendar on the wall slowly becoming thinner. Its pages had been torn from it and now lay in the waste paper basket.

You spent the majority of your time in the palace. It served as a pleasant reprieve from the noise in your household — while you had gotten used to the fighting, the noise distracted you from your studies. Initially, you had not been able to put down a word next to the feeling you felt, but now you knew it was grief. Grief didn't necessarily require a loss of someone — you realized you were grieving for the loss of something you always wanted — a family.

The weeks inched closer to your birthday. You remembered all the memories you had made fondly: your first mana-casting, your first lychee, your first friend. All of this had happened in your eighth year of living, and you felt exhilarated, convinced that things could only get better from then on.

You worked hard; your nose bled, your hands grew rough and sported callouses. Your skin became sunburnt from all the times you spent running around barefoot in the garden, treading on soft moss and slipping occasionally. One subject you tended to be far better in than Silas was botany, and it was always a pleasure to depart knowledge to him.

"There's roses over here —look," you told him once. "I mean, the meaning of them is pretty well-known, and it's mostly everyone's favorites. But I love the daffodils. My mom told me that they mean new beginnings, rebirth, and hope. New beginnings. I like the sound of that. It's like a fresh start."

You waited patiently for your family's fresh start. That one day you would wake up on your bed with the cold wind kissing your cheeks and whispering to you that everything was going to be fine, and that your family had changed. Then when your feet stepped onto the cold tiles of the floor, it seemed to mock you, telling you that your dreams were naive and stupid, that your naivety would be whisked away.

Like the heavens were mocking you, your father and mother quarreled even more so. Sometimes you wondered if you were making a big fuss over their arguments: after all, unlike Silas, you had been blessed with a loving mother. Was it greedy of you to demand more? But still your heart remained selfish: you continued to demand. But there was a silver lining in every cloud, and you found your relationship with your father improving, albeit rocky at times.

You worked extra hard to please him. At times, it pulled over. Other times, it didn't.

"...I thought you were getting good because you mastered the first tier. I must have been wrong." He said once.

Your heart had dropped. It was sickening to feel the sensation of it dropping all the way down to the pits of your stomach. Metaphorically, of course, but nonetheless, it had hurt the same.

Your father was disappointed. Disappointed! Disappointment was worse than anger. But how? Had you become complacent and had neglected your mana? How did you not do it? You had to do it! You had to — you had to perform well! This couldn't happen.

You had experienced your father's sweet tasting words once, of honeyed praise, of glittering phrases. You wanted it again. Now that you had tasted it, you only wanted more. But soon the attention he paid to you dwindled down and his laconic replies suggested a lack of interest in you.

Your father said you were a dreamer, and yet in the past few months, he seemed to have his head in the clouds. He looked detached from reality, almost, and traipsed between hallucinations and nightmares.

The arguments continued. It always did. And this time it centered around the Emperor. You ignored them. You didn't have any choice but to learn how to do so.

And your birthday grew closer and closer.

On one hand, you were excited for it. In fact, you looked forward to it, remembering the promise that Silas had told you — that he would draw you in your journal. That he would write about you in your journal. But on the other hand, you were absolutely terrified. Someone said before that life was over after eight. There was no more endless playtime, no more tantrums, nothing. Most of all, you were worried about nostalgia.

Wasn't that such a cursed, lovely word? You had seen it in a book that your mother had read. You remembered the sheer amount of words crammed in such a tiny page: it made your head spin. But still, you remembered the context of nostalgia, the meaning of that word.

Nostalgia was such a powerful thing. Nostalgia was such a powerful ingredient, and yet also such a deadly weapon. Was it what you felt when you tasted an old recipe that your mother hadn't made in years? Was it what you felt when you thought of the time Elias was made and you wished to be returned back to that moment?

Contrary to what you heard others say, you didn't believe that nostalgia was confined to moments that happened a long time ago. You hadn't eaten mangoes for a week — and yet you felt nostalgia all the same (or perhaps the appropriate word would be longing) souring your tongue. But still, you had the wistful desire to return in thought or in fact, to that former period of your life. You had this incessant yearning for the happiness of a former time; a former place.

You wanted to tell time to stop moving its hands. To stop unraveling. And yet it continued. Your birthday was starting to seem like a death date. The minute you turned nine — your official training would begin. When you turned twelve, you would be confined to your duties.

You treated every moment with Silas preciously. You ate your guilt instead of the freshly peeled oranges your mother gave you and you watched Elias instead of reading your favorite books. You wondered about the smiles and laughs that had been stolen from Silas and the rotten marks they left on him emotionally. He was only six. Your mother drank cheap wine (she wasn't addicted to it, by any means, but you noted how drinking had been inserted into her day, seven PM sharp. She didn't drink generously and instead only drank it bit by bit.)

Alcohol, to her, wasn't something of pleasure. It was more of a tonic, like the bitter medicine you choked down when you were sick. She sang frequently, her voice sweet and lilting. And yet you sensed her soul was splintered, and that she was sad, very sad. She baked too, and there would always be a subtle, cinnamon scent in the air. You would prop up on the counter and sample them, before taking them to Silas.

"I love it," you told Silas reverently one day as you ate them. More like, you loved the memory of your mother and you baking. The grass was smooth beneath your fingers and the air was even colder because of the seasons nearing winter. Your hands were clean and so was the lunchbox. Your finger ran a trail tracing from the top of a crack of a rock to the bottom. You remembered seeing the exact same thing a few months back. "I bake them sometimes, with my mother."

Silas was leaning on the tree. You two had tried an assortment of goods — blueberry pie, sweet figs, grilled chicken. Cold cuts. Juicy tomatoes. You two would lay on the grass giggling (well, mostly you giggled) and tell each other stories. The garden became a treasure trove to you, and at one point of time you realized you were running straight into growing up and abandoning your adolescence.

A shadow dagger of sadness had been implanted in your chest. Hollowness. Quietness. Solemness. Don't get it wrong — you weren't depressed, by any means. You still laughed merrily and felt joy within yourself, but you would feel a tiny blip of misery at times.

It was the kind that only Silas's hugs could fix. Over time the six year old child became more affectionate and you delighted in it. He liked to lie on your leg with his hair tickling your thighs, telling you about his day. It was funny how his words and his expressions could be so cold and detached and yet he reached for the warmth of your hand. He demanded piggy backs at times and paraded around on your shoulders.

"You like baking, huh?"

"It's therapeutic."

"What's that?"

Silently, you cheered at the fact that you would finally be able to teach Silas something that did not pertain to nature. "Like it's healing. Makes me feel better. Like when I'm sad, it helps to calm my nerves."

"And why would you feel sad?" Silas frowned. "I get the feeling of being angry, but I definitely wouldn't feel — sad. Is there anyone bothering you? Because I'm probably stronger than them."

You laughed. "No. I mean it in a different way. Like — sentimental, that kind of sad."

"But nothing sad has happened."

"And nothing sad needs to happen," you gave a small sigh. "I don't know. It's stupid, but it's like I'm mourning something that hasn't even happened. Like — in a few years time, will these trees become rotting logs? Will the flowers wilt?" Then you glanced at Silas. "Your teeth are probably going to all straighten out to fit your jaw. I bet that you're gonna be tall and muscular. I hope I end up that way too."

Would the willow trees weep for you? Would people still grin at you? Would you still be able to squeeze in through the bushes, or would you be too tall?

"I don't see the point in being sad." Silas said matter of factly. "I think you're too sentimental."

"I think I am," you agreed dolefully. "I don't like this feeling. I think too much, my dad says."

"You're the one who told me to focus on the present."

"Hey!" You cried out, "when did I say that?"

Silas shrugged. But there was a small smile on his face. "A while back. A couple of months ago. It'll make sense if you forgot."

"I'm never treating any of your wounds ever again. Even if you fall off a cliff or something."

"Really?" Silas frowned.

Truth was, Silas could heal himself. But he liked having his skinned knees bandaged by your unsteady hands. Though messy and sloppy, it gave him the best kind of comfort that even magic couldn't offer him. And besides, when he got injured — which tended to be criminally often as the assassination attempts did not cease — you tended to be like a mother hen, constantly frazzled and perplexed.

("Silas!" You said once in horror, "look at you!"

"I fell," Silas offered.

The thing about you was that you believed the best in people. Especially him. Silas had no doubt that even if he showed up that day with a decapitated head in his hands, you would still run to him and worry about him.)

"If you didn't get hurt, I wouldn't have to treat you!" You huffed. "Gosh, really..."

"You're acting like an adult and you're eight."

"And you're being mean and you're six!"

The two of you stared at each other, until smiles broke on both of your faces.

You laughed, and you saw that Silas laughed, too.

—

In the warmer days, you and Silas went hunting. Not the kind of hunting that your father did, of course, but hunting for new animals and fruits. Elias joined, much to your merriment, and proved a far better adventurer than you and Silas. He liked to lunge right into the leaves of a tree and as a result, would send fruits toppling right over.

One of your most memorable discoveries had been the butterfly. You knew what a butterfly was — duh — and you had seen one before, but this was your first time seeing the pupae. The cocoon.

"The meaning of the universe is all hidden within the cocoon of the butterfly," you said cryptically.

"That's nonsense." The ever realist Silas spoiled your dreams.

"You're younger than me. You're supposed to be..." you paused. "Whimsical." You smiled smugly. "Do you know what that word is, or must I tell you?"

"I know that word." Silas said shortly, before he squinted at the cocoon again. "I'll humor you. What exactly is the meaning of the universe?"

"Adulthood. Blossoming—"

"Metamorphosis."

You jumped and stared at Silas with your jaw agape. "How do you know that word? What does that mean?"

"I saw it in a book." Silas said nonchalantly, "it's a change. A huge change."

"Oh." You deflated. "I need your brains. I really do. I'm half out of my mind cramming information into my brain."

"And you were saying? Don't go off topic. What exactly about the cocoon represents adulthood?"

Elias was perched on Silas's shoulder, chirping away. It seemed to have sensed Silas's softening emotions and had warmed up to him. You thought it made a rather endearing sight, really, with the bird perched on his small frame. You wondered if Silas's height would eclipse yours, or if you would continue to be taller than him.

"Oh! Right." You remembered. "Basically, it becomes a totally different animal than it was earlier on. Like a caterpillar to a butterfly. And it has this long rest in the cocoon. Which is similar to us. We'll probably change as we get older."

Silas had an inkling about growing up. He would be able to feel it, rather than see it — the way he would grow more into his skin, allowing it to enlarge to accommodate him. The way people would finally treat him seriously; fear him, even. And unlike you, as another birthday creeped closer, his heart would grow lighter, while yours would grow heavier.

"I hope not." Silas said at last.

You glanced at him. "I hope not too."

—

You picked fruits with him. The garden had strawberries littered all around. Cherries, too. You enjoyed the feeling of the sun shining down on your face, and when you looked at Silas, he would have cherry stains on his attire. You would giggle, then wipe his mouth.

You would laugh so hard your belly would begin to ache. You wondered why your parents didn't do the same: laugh until their ribs grew taut and their stomachs hurt. They looked sad all the time, like they were missing something. Was it the sultry summer? Was it their childhood? Being happy?

Those mysteries eluded you. Your days continued. You teased Silas. He took it in humoristic stride. Silas never showed any affection to you outrightly, but still, you felt it.

And so did Silas. You had made it plain to him you liked him. There was no platonic love, but there was also certainly no romance — you two were both too young to understand the concept of love, but you both felt it before you knew it. In the future, when Silas would look back on this, he would realize that he was always hungry for love. Always. Silas wanted to know what it would have been like to be consumed by it; to be drenched by it until he drowned. He wanted it, just once, and you gave it to him. You spoon-fed it to him.

In the future, you would try to trace back everything to a defining moment. You would try to see where it had started. But there would be no defining moment: every memory was softened and sweet, and every moment was sanctioned times of peace. All of these allowed you two to slip away from reality. Every moment was of surreal quality.

You made flower crowns for him. You tried to, at least, and Silas teased you for your shaky hands as you tried clumsily to tie the knots. You had mourned the daisies when he tore them from the field. You sketched drawings with him, in dog-eared notebooks and stained plastic. You stole oranges from the pantry with sticky fingers. You wheezed at his mistakes.

In Silas you imbued a love that couldn't be bought.

The days were peppered with occasional spurts of anger, courtesy of your parents: they fought viciously. They fought tiredly. Some days they wouldn't look at each other: they would deflate, like they were balloons that had been pricked with a sharp pin.

You wondered if the sharp pin was you.

You preferred their anger to their silence. You wondered about rebelling, and yet you never did. You wanted to be perfect. A few years down the line, people would ask you, people would tell you that this had make you stronger. But you were a child. You didn't need to be strong, all you wanted was to be loved. To be safe.

You had become so close-knit with Silas, that you started to wonder how you would live your life without him.

Could you even do it? Was it possible? He was so intrinsically woven within you, so attached to you. Integral to you.

You clung to everything as your dreaded yet magical day came. Old flower crowns, pieces of drawings, orange peels.

And then your birthday arrived.

—

a filler chapter, if u will, and the next chapter will be detailing the birthday! there are no acts here so it's really just consecutive flow haha (pretty sure this is a moderate pace — is it too slow? please do let me know how you feel about the pacing)

a few more chapters before the major time skip! of course there's still the finding out of identity and other stuff) (three years time skip)

hope u all liked it! blessed to see such support from everyone :)

how was it?