At last, six months had passed—a monumental milestone in the world of infancy, as it meant I could finally crawl! The room, grand and imposing for two newborns confined to a cradle, became my newfound domain. Freed from the confines of bed linens and idle rocking, I took to the floors with enthusiasm, crawling with the zeal of a conqueror exploring new lands.
The first destination on my grand tour was, naturally, a mirror. I crawled over, settled myself down in front of it, and observed. Unlike most babies who would babble or clap at the sight of their own reflection, I simply took in my appearance with what I hoped was a dignified silence.
Silver hair had begun to grow, framing my round, babyish face, which otherwise didn't have much to distinguish it. My eyes were red like my mother's, but where hers held a fierce clarity, mine were a darker shade, like deep pools of blood—a rather unsettling image, though fitting in some mysterious way.
Behind me, I sensed the maids' gazes, a blend of curiosity and amusement, as if waiting for me to behave like the typical infant. Meanwhile, my twin sister—Celia—had already adopted the part with impressive dedication. She was very much the proper baby, a bundle of giggles and mischief, her own silvery hair framing her chubby face.
As I sat there, inspecting the strangeness of my own reflection, the door swung open, and Mother entered. She crossed the room with the kind of effortless grace that only came from years of discipline and mastery. Her silver hair seemed to glow in the light, and her crimson eyes took us both in with a mixture of warmth and scrutiny.
But what caught my eye was the sword strapped to her waist. Somehow, it completed her presence, as if it were an extension of her very self, perfectly in line with the famous quote, "Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee." Here was a duchess in her element—not merely a noblewoman, but a warrior of unmistakable prowess.
"Anything new?" my mother asked, picking me up with practiced ease and drawing me into a warm embrace.
"No, Your Grace," the nanny replied, shaking her head with a gentle smile. "The young master and young miss are just the same as always."
"Hmm," my mother mused, patting my back with a thoughtful expression as she glanced at my sister, who was wailing from hunger as though the world were ending. "It amazes me how my twins can be so different," she murmured, a faint touch of amusement in her voice.
Well, of course we were different. Celia was a baby in every way, with the complete enthusiasm and dedication one expects of a small creature intent on making every need known. I, however, had no intention of raising such an alarm over something like hunger. It felt... undignified, even if I currently had the stature of a turnip.
And besides, in a household such as ours, there was no real fear of going without. Hunger, while inconvenient, was hardly the harbinger of doom it might be elsewhere. So I'd simply learned to wait it out.
Which, given my current size and helplessness, was quite possibly the best thing I could do—relying entirely on others as I was, and no doubt would continue to be for some time.
'Warm,' I thought, watching the maids bustle quietly around the room while my mother fed Celia.
The atmosphere in this room, at least, held a tangible warmth, something almost beyond the temperature itself. It was a kind of care that wrapped around me like a soft blanket, present in every glance, every gesture, as if love itself resided here.
The maids, the nanny, my mother…each of them seemed to overflow with it.
I looked up at my mother, the very embodiment of that warmth, and an unfamiliar yearning stirred within me—a deep, instinctual need to be held by her, to bask in that strength and tenderness.
The feeling was oddly powerful. Almost without thinking, I tried to speak, to shape the word I knew would draw her closer. It was no small task, but with a quiet determination, I pushed through.
"Mama," I finally managed, the word soft but clear.
Her face softened, and as her gaze met mine, I felt that warmth deepen, wrapping around me completely.
"To think my son spoke his first word at only six months," my mother said, her voice steady yet softened with a rare wonder.
She passed Celia gently to the nanny before lifting me up, bringing my small forehead to rest against hers. Her eyes, fierce and crimson, looked at me with a depth of feeling that seemed almost boundless.
"My little genius," she murmured, a faint smile gracing her lips. "Thank you for saying that."
But then something unexpected happened—a single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light before falling away. My heart clenched, as if a hand had closed tightly around it, and I felt a wave of sorrow unlike anything I'd ever known.
An ache filled me, not for myself but for her. I wanted to help her, to be her strength. I may have been a child in body, but in that moment, I felt an unshakable resolve to be her support, to ease whatever weight she carried.
'I don't know what happened to my father, but I know he's gone. Which means she's carrying this burden alone,' I thought, my own eyes growing misty.
Though I couldn't yet put it into words, I silently promised her that I would be here, that I would stand by her, as a son should.
She then went on to feed me, her tears gone as she held me close, her warmth soothing me into a soft, drowsy haze. As she coddled me gently, the world around me faded, my small worries drifting away under her steady presence, and I surrendered to sleep.
And so, in this cocoon of warmth and quiet strength, Celia and I grew, days turning into years, until we reached the age of six.