Chapter 4

Loss

"Again."

"Yes, Papa."

Early in the morning, my father and I were out in the raspberry field training. Every hour or so, we would stop to take a break and have a few berries from the bush as a snack. At the moment though, we were training and training hard. My father had been spending our training session teaching me to defend myself using the spells and tricks I had learned within the past month. It was rough, but I almost enjoyed it that way.

"Dodge this, son!" He called to me from a distance. He tossed fire balls at me, which I deflected by materializing to another spot in the field.

"Missed me!" I teased. My father laughed.

"Gute, Sigmund! Gute! Now hit me with your best shot!" I froze at his request. Why was he asking me to harm him?

"B-but Papa...I couldn't-"

"Do as I say! NOW!"

I let out a shaken breath. It was times like these when the rough training became a mental game. My father didn't care about safety when it came to himself, all he cared for was seeing me progressing. I didn't have a choice here.

Taking a strong stance, I cleared my head and instead, filled my thoughts with my frustrations. It was the best way to channel my strongest magic. I thought of all those who had talked poorly of myself and of my family. I thought of the ones who distanced themselves from me. I felt a rush of power run through my veins. Unfortunately, more fire than expected shot from my hands and I scorched them, both. The pain, it was brutal and I couldn't help but scream. My father tried to help, but we couldn't extinguish the flames.

"PAPA!" I cried.

"SIGMUND, STOP! YOU'RE UPSET! YOU MUST CONTROL YOURSELF!"

I took another shaken breath, trying my best to calm myself. The flames slowly died out and as I fell to my knees, my father managed to catch me before I hit grass. My hands were raw, red and swollen. I couldn't manage to continue today and I had to admit that to my father.

"Papa, I'm hurt. I'm letting you know as you told me to, Papa."

My father helped me stand from the grass and together, we walked over to a pipe near a barn in the fields. Opening the pipe, cool water streamed and my father instructed me to let my hands cool down. The water stung more than words could describe, but I didn't let it show. My hands jerked back a couple times before I finally settled down. After a while, my father pulled out a roll of bandages. He dried my hands with a rag from his pocket and wrapped each hand. Again from his pockets, he pulled a pair of leather gloves and set them in my hands.

"Wear these from now on." He instructed. I nodded and slid them onto my hands. To my surprise, my fingers poked out the ends of them. And they were most definitely too big for me.

"Thank you, Papa." My father nodded back at me.

"Are you well enough to go on?"

"Yes, Papa. I think so."

"Okay then. Don't strain yourself this time."

The gloves my father had gifted me protected my palms from further burns and self inflicted damage. They annoyed me a little because of the size though. The way they twisted, slipped and wrinkled were an obstacle within themselves.

—

I walked with my mother and father to the marketplace to shop for new things for our home. My sister had fallen ill suddenly earlier in the day, so she stayed home to rest. I figured she just wanted to get out of running errands, but I didn't fuss about it.

My mother stood in front of Mr. Thomas' cart and pointed at a stained glass vase. She wanted something to set the flowers from our garden into and we'd been working hard enough to buy trinkets to add to our small, family cottage.

"Isn't that just lovely?" She asked me. I frowned. It was very lovely indeed, but it came from the cart of Mr. Thomas, a man who had spoken terribly about not only myself but the rest of my family. Mr. Thomas met us on the end of the cart where the vase sat with a smile I could read through easily. It wasn't welcoming. It was false and only sat there to make a sale.

"No, Mama. It's horrid in fact." I retorted. His mouth dropped at my response. My mother gasped and quickly covered my mouth, though I heard my father muffle back a chuckle.

"Please, my apologies Mr. Thomas!" She breathed. He mumbled something under his breath and turned his back to us to service other customers at his cart. My mother dragged me aside with slight force and lowered herself to her knees to meet my eyes.

"Son, why would you say such a thing?" Before I could respond, my father caught up to where we stood at the corner of the market and tapped my mother's shoulder, grabbing her attention. He set a finger to his lips.

"Quiet, love." He spoke in a hushed tone. "I'm listening to someone speak. I heard the name of our son."

My mother quickly rose to her feet and moved her attention to the conversation developing. Sure enough, someone was indeed talking about me. It was Lila's mother to her father. The couple spoke to Mrs. Anne.

"Yes, my daughter has been spending quite a bit of time with him." Her father spoke to Mrs. Anne, almost in a tone of bragging. "We've told her to do so."

"Why?" Mrs. Anne asked.

"Between us and us alone, we hope for them to to be wed." Her mother chuckled in a hushed tone. "His fame is growing, haven't you taken notice? I'm sure the funds in the family will grow as well!"

My mother and I gasped in unison. I looked up at my father when he walked forward. The look on his face was one of anger, though behind his reddened face, he almost looked tinged with sadness. My mother quickly grabbed my hand and shuffled behind my father in an effort to stop him.

"Darling! Wait!" She desperately called. It was to no use, my father had already stepped into the scene.

"HOW DARE YOU TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY SON!" His voice rumbled like thunder across the marketplace. It was almost like time had stopped around me. Lila's parent's gasped in shock of being heard. Mrs. Anne backed off quickly and shook her head to distance herself from the gossip.

"N-no, wait!" Lila's mother started. "We weren't talking about him!" A blatant lie that upset me and shook me to my core. It was all a lie. I thought I had a friend, someone who genuinely cared. It was a ploy. A plot for money that we didn't even have.

"We heard you..." I mumbled. "We heard everything. EVERYTHING!"

"No, sweetheart-"

"S-so Lila was never really my friend, was she?"

"Of course she is!" Her father insisted.

In return, my father did the unthinkable. In a swift move, he must've punched the living twilight from Lila's father's existence. As her father fell back, the marketplace was in an immediate uproar of shock, laughter and cheers.

"Don't you DARE lie to my son!" As swiftly as he had punched him, my father turned to me. "NEVER speak to these vile people ever again!"

"Yes, Papa."

And with that agreement, we left the market. Things were quickly becoming more stressful for me. The more power I gained, the more silver my hair became. Children noticed, there was no hiding it. It made me an outcast. I was teased for having elderly hair, hair that resembled the hair on my father's head. More and more often, almost daily, I had random people approach me to be friends. Adults even, trying to be part of my life. Pushing their children to be part of my life. Some part. Any part.

My father told me to ignore them, so they began to envy me instead. They hated me and my family for keeping them out. Can you imagine me, an impressionable child hearing the most nauseating insults from fully grown adults? Evil people, all of them.

—

"I've got some new clothes for you, Sigmund!"

"Thank you, Mother."

"Will you be helping your father out in the fields again today, darling?"

"Actually, no. Isis needs me today."

By the time I was ten, children in my village hated me for being who I was. They excluded me from their gatherings. They didn't invite me to parties or to play simple games around the village. A typical day for me was assisting my family with field work or household chores. My mother worried about me, but I would assure her that I was doing fine. I wasn't.

Today, I would be helping my sister with Spring cleaning. Cleaning the kitchen, the study, bathrooms and our bedrooms from ceiling to floor. My mother loved a clean house around this time and we didn't mind helping her. My sister walked into the kitchen where my mother and I had been talking and handed me a wash rag and bucket.

"Windows, brother." Isis ordered me. I nodded at my now, much older teenage sister. Isis pulled her brown hair into an untidy top knot and raised her sleeves to being washing up the dishes. I walked over to the window, dipping the rag into the bucket of soapy water.

I looked out at the grassy land my home sat on. The reddened raspberry field stood out the most and in the distance, mountains lined the sky faintly. I could see my father plowing the raspberry patch under the harsh heat of the sun. He was always more energetic on days like these, and so was I.

Behind me, suddenly, was a noise that became common in our cottage. The sound of my sister coughing and wheezing heavily. My mother patted her on the back in an effort to sooth her.

"I told you that you should rest for the day, my daughter." My mother cooed.

"I don't need to, Mother. Thank you."

"Well then, please don't strain yourself Isis. Please."

My sister continued the washing as my mother went out to hang the laundry. For a few weeks now, Isis had been sick on and off. Some mornings, she would wake and rise from her bed pale and cold. Her eyes would have dark circles around them and her breathing could easily be heard throughout the cottage. Other days, she would wake up well enough to cook and work with my mother, like this day.

After washing the dishes, Isis made herself a cup of tea and took a seat at the table to rest. I turned to her, concerned with the way she leaned over the table. I could hear her struggle to breathe between sips.

"Isis, I think you should rest." She shot me a glance.

"Sigmund, brother, mind your own. I'm fine."

"Your breathing is horrid."

"I'm fine! Thank you!"

She rested her head on the table, face flushed from just the small bit of shouting she had just done. She wasn't fine, just like me, but I'd let her be.

I turned back to the windows and dried them. Slowly, I made my way around the kitchen. I swept and mopped the floors, dried the remainder of the dishes and dusted. When I looked back at Isis, she had fallen asleep at the table. I was worried for her.

Throughout the rest of the day, I did both her chores and mine. By nightfall, I was exhausted. I found my sister had been moved from the table to her bedroom, most likely by my father. My mother was in the room with her, feeding her soup I was sure of it since I could smell it from outside. I decided to check on them both, to see if my mother needed any assistance.

I stepped into the cottage and made my way to her room, but a few feet away, I heard a sharp yelp from my mother that stopped me in my tracks. There was another loud scream and what sounded like glass breaking. My paused turned into a sprint to the bedroom. There, glass littered the floor from the porcelain bowl of soup my mother had possibly been holding. Soup covered the rug that my mother knelt on at my sister's bedside. In my mother's hand, a hand, blue in complexion and white where my mother squeezed. I couldn't breathe when I saw my sister. She was limp.

"FETCH YOUR FATHER, SIGMUND! FETCH YOUR FATHER, PLEASE! PLEASE!"

I ran out, shaken. I hadn't even noticed the tears that had streamed down my face. My sister's ghostly face haunted me. Lifeless. Void. I screamed for my father while I ran, my voice trembling. He had still been working in the fields and turned in shock when he heard my voice. "Sigmund?"

"ISIS, FATHER! SHE'S I'LL! HELP, FATHER!"

He dropped his bag of seeds and chased after me as I ran back toward the cottage. Both of us dashed to my sister's aide. Now that I saw her, she had been worse than before. Her whole body, blue. She wasn't responding. The black around her eyes had deepened and her breathing sounded like a fight. It was the worst I had ever heard. A cough shook her body awake, but barely.

"Oh, my daughter.." My father cried against her hand.

My mother was unable to look any longer. She had already broken down, her body turned in the direction of the corner of the room and her face covered by her hands. I stood, emotionless. Slowly, Isis' attention turned to me. Her mouth opened, slightly, as if she wanted to speak. Though my body was stiff, I managed to kneel beside her, taking her hand into mine. Cold.

"What is it, sister?"

"...you'll do well...do well for me."

"Always." I replied. "You'll be right here with me, Isis. This isn't your final hour. Don't speak that way."

She smiled, though it wasn't much, I caught it. Isis always had a witty response, even through pain, she managed to give me a sassy look.

"W-we-" I felt my hand tighten around hers as she coughed. My eyes closed shut as she struggled for air. "...both know better." I frowned. She was right. "Y-you're chosen...not me."

"Isis.."

"Bless our family..." She sighed, closing her eyes. "..do well for me."

"I will, sister."

Any air that was left in her body escaped at that moment. She didn't take in anymore. A single tear from her eye was the only thing that moved on my dear sister. I stroked her hair as my mother screamed behind me. I fought the tears that wanted to fall. I fought so hard. I wouldn't dare grieve now, I had to be strong. I held her hand tighter as her began to release mine. My mother couldn't handle the sight and stumbled out of the room, my father chasing behind her. With them gone, I fluffed her pillow and tucked her in. Alone, finally, I could cry. My sister, at just fifteen years, had died.

—

"We're so sorry for your loss."

"It's fine. She's at peace now. Thank you."

People in my village had heard about my sister's passing later that week. Families brought us food and gifts or just kind words. My parents allowed me to speak to the townspeople, but only if it involved Isis. Any other topic would quickly be ignored.

When Lila and her family arrived to share condolences, my parents ushered me into the cottage and didn't allow me to see her at all. When Lila requested to see me, they lied to her and gave her a false reason, telling her I was heavily grieving and couldn't be seen. I sat in my bedroom and played my wooden recorder. It was the only thing at the time that kept me sane.

The house was quiet without Isis around. No arguing. No complaining about housework. Somehow though, I could still feel her presence. I could still feel something warm at my hip, as if she was sitting right beside me. I moved the recorder away from my lips for a moment and listened.

"I know you're there..." I spoke into the open air. "...I'm fine, Isis. You need to rest."

And then, the room was still. The air that had once stirred with a soft hum against my ear had silenced. The warmth at my hip, gone. I smiled to myself. The door to my room opened and my mother peered in with a melancholy smile in my direction before she entered and sat beside me on my bed.

"My son.." Her voice croaked. She tried her best to keep herself together, but her voice revealed her pain. "..how are you?"

"I'm fine, Mother. How have you been?" She paused before she responded. I couldn't imagine the thoughts she was collecting.

"I've been trying, Sigmund."

I hugged my mother. The death hit her the hardest. Isis was her piece of work in every sense of the term as I had been to my father. My mother's work had been taken from her. It died right before her eyes. I knew how important I was to both my parents now, more than ever, just for their sake. For their legacy.

"I will try harder for you, Mother. I promise." She looked down at me as I spoke and gave me a knowing smile. "Mother, I'll be the best."

"I know you will." She spoke softly. As a knock came to the door, I quickly rose to answer it. Another family had arrived.