Alex's perspective 1

I was a cold child.

It is odd to say myself, but I managed most things without being taught—better than average.

Since the eldest brother one generation above was destined to inherit the family estate, I was merely a spare, a child who thought only of expanding my auxiliary duties—unlovable, uninteresting.

I always appeared to be a well-behaved child. It was tiresome to prove myself, either by acting like an overly expected elder brother, or by behaving recklessly like a mischievous younger sibling, just to earn affection.

When I turned seven, I learned my mother was with child.

Though I felt a touch of disbelief toward my parents, who were still fondling each other like lovers in their later years, I smiled as an angel and offered her words of blessing, as I always did.

Even as my parents grieved the loss of their younger daughter, I thought, quite callously, that we three had children of our own now—what harm could it do? We could always make another, if we wished. Yet I gently soothed them, saying, “Do not weep, Mother. We are sorrowful too, but your tears grieve us more.” Even as I spoke, I found myself smiling, a hypocrite, a man I despised.

It was Spica, my younger sister, who changed me.

She came suddenly to the manor, glowing in the sunlight. Her innocence, untouched by my baseness, frightened me at first—so pure, so unaware, I could not even bring myself to touch her.

And yet I could not look away. Though the thought of approaching her filled me with dread, I went to her room every day, drawn by her smile, drawn by the desire to be near her.

It was infuriating how her brother touched her without fear, even lifting her up. Her younger brother, unafraid, pressed his fingers against her cheek. Honestly, I envied them.

On the third evening since her arrival at the manor, Spica suddenly began to cry. Unluckily, I was alone with her—only the maid and I present.

No matter how the maid rocked her or offered the small bottle of milk, she would not stop weeping. As the two of us exchanged worried glances, Spica’s tiny hand reached out and gripped mine. Her tear-filled eyes stared straight at me.

I reached out of my own accord, and without thought, cradled her into my arms.

Light as feathers, warm as sunlit stone. A sense of happiness swelled within me—like a glowing orb floating from my chest and rising into the sky.

I was glad she had quieted, even though I held her awkwardly, her small form nestled in my arms.

I sang the lullaby I had once heard from my mother, wrapped in a quiet joy.

Spica smiled at me with a melting expression, her laughter now a soft breath, as if the tears from moments before had never been. She drifted into sleep.

From that day forward, I no longer feared touching her. I began studying music, not for any other reason, but because I wished to see her smile—her smile as a child of light, as an angel, as she listened to my voice. I soon realized she favored music, especially the piano, the harp, and the organ. I studied with earnest devotion.

Though I had always been merely competent, my diligence transformed my skill. I became more than capable.

By the time Spica turned four, I had claimed the duty of singing her lullaby, and I would not surrender it to another. I believed the face of the angel falling asleep—those final, fleeting moments—was mine alone.

Spica, now four years old, said, “I can fall asleep without hearing my elder brother’s song. The shock I felt when Alyssa called me ‘a four-year-old big sister who still falls asleep to lullabies, like a baby’—no one could possibly imagine it.”

Spica, in truth, is the younger sister of Lady Maasa, the head maid, and the one year younger than Spica, making her three years old. She was Spica’s playmate, though she once nearly erupted in anger over something trivial. Alyssa likely does not understand why she still bears ill will toward me.

Two months had passed since the shock, and while Spica and I were playing together in the solarium, she began to do something strange.

She kept pressing a handkerchief to my eyes.

。

“What is it, Spica? Is there something on my face?” I asked, and Spica leaned in with an even more puzzled expression.

“Brother, your eyes… they look like they’re weeping. Did it hurt? Did you hurt it? Not hurt, right?”

I wondered if the angle of light had made it seem so, but lately I had indeed felt my vision blurring. So I asked Spica.

“I didn’t hurt it. But why did you think that?”

Spica paused, considering, then answered.

“Brother, little sparkles are spilling from your eyes. Plopping, plopping. Father, Mother, Cain Elder, Fret Elder—none of them can be seen. Only Alex Elder—your eyes… they look strange.”

I soothed my anxious little sister with a gentle hand. “If you’re so worried, let’s have the doctor look at you,” I said. She lifted her half-dazed face and nodded. Without delay, we made our way to the room where the household physician, our personal healer, awaited.

“Doctor Carp, might I have a moment of your time?” After a light knock, I opened the door and showed my face to the one within. “Of course, please come in.” I was welcomed without delay. It was no surprise that the household physician, Doctor Carp, had already guessed this visit was about another injury—my younger brother Fret had fallen again, and it was common enough. That I had brought along the young lady, Spica, must have made him suspect another accident.

I said, “Recently, my vision has been blurring, and Spica has grown concerned. Could you please examine me?” He accepted without hesitation and began the examination.

“It appears to be eye strain from reading sheet music or books,” he said. “But when exactly does the blurring occur?”

I paused, inwardly impressed by how well he knew my habits, then considered carefully. “Mostly when I’m reading the textbook on magic studies, or after physical conditioning drills.” I gave that answer.

After palpating her, Doctor Craf fell into thoughtful silence, then his expression darkened. “Let us examine more closely. There is a possibility of a rare illness.”

I had only wished to ease my sister’s anxiety, but now I felt a quiet unease, as though something had gone awry.

Perhaps my worry showed on my face, for Doctor Craf said, “You need not fret, my young lord, nor you, my young lady. I am glad you come to me even for the smallest concern. Still, there is something I wish to investigate further—let us look into it tomorrow and onward. If something feels amiss, do come to me at once. That is the most important thing. Both of you are truly admirable.”

I held Spica’s hand, whispering that she would be all right, and led her back to our chambers.

In the end, the doctor’s concern proved true. I had fallen ill with Monaza disease.

Even amidst all this, fortune had aligned in my favor. One was that Doctor Carp’s mentor was a renowned authority on the Monaza disease. Doctor Carp, having experience assisting in research, had noticed the symptoms.

And recently, the method for curing this dread illness has been discovered. The transplantation of a Sacred Origin or a Sacred Scar—though difficult, is not impossible. Fortunately, our family is noble, a lineage established since the founding of the realm. Though time and gold may be required, we stand a far greater chance than those of impoverished lesser nobility.

And above all, the most significant factor was the early detection during the initial stages. In truth, this illness could be delayed slightly. By obtaining holy water from the church and drinking it regularly, the progression of symptoms could be observed to slow.

My family spoke in turn to comfort me, saying it was fortunate amid misfortune.

Spica knows that day’s event is a secret between the two of us. I had told her not to speak of it. Because Spica noticed, my decline in sight and holy power has been gradual. In truth, there is no need for Spica to worry. When illness strikes is known only to the divine. Yet Spica grew sorrowful. “If one day my elder brother’s eyes should fail, I will become my elder brother’s eyes! I will stay by your side always, so you will never fall,” she said, her voice trembling with guilt, yet sweetly. Only to me did she say she would stay by my side forever. That alone gave me a quiet pride, a warmth that filled me with joy.

So I never told another soul about the strange tears Spica once saw. This is a secret between us—only us.

Later, I changed my plans from attending the national academy—where I had intended to enroll at twelve—so that I might pursue music without the burden of noble lineage.

It was a pleasant surprise that, no longer bound to the academy, I could spend more time with Spica.

More than anything, simply being with Spica filled me with new music. My angel had, without my noticing, become my muse.

By the time Spica was seven, her talent was recognized, and she began performing at several salons. Requests for her as a private tutor increased. She even began to attract a network of patrons.

Yet still, the time I spent with Spica remained the most precious to me. Whenever I found free moments, I would take her to operas, recitals, or salons—showing her off, proud as a father might be.

The illness slowly consumes me, yet I pay it no mind. I have learned that my right eye's sight has diminished to about half of what it was before the onset, though it progresses so gradually that I would not have noticed it without being told.

"Alex Elder, be careful where you step—there is a small threshold here."

As always, the lovely angel beside me is watching over my eyes today.