The secluded cottage, nestled deep within the whispering hills, became a sanctuary of quietude, a stark contrast to the cacophony of Orario's ruins. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, and the fragile infant, Bell, began to unfurl like a delicate blossom under Alfia's watchful, albeit often conflicted, gaze. His cries, initially sharp and jarring to her noise-averse sensibilities 1, softened into gurgles, then coos, and eventually, the soft murmur of nascent words. Each tiny milestone was observed by Alfia with a detached intensity that slowly, imperceptibly, began to thaw the icy grip of her self-imposed emotional solitude.
Her recovery was a slow, arduous crawl. The lingering effects of her illness, a constant, dull ache that permeated her bones and occasionally sent tremors through her limbs, served as a perpetual reminder of her fragility. Yet, the insidious progression of the disease seemed to have stalled, held at bay by the inexplicable connection Zeus had spoken of, a lifeline woven from Meteria's final, loving act.2 It was a paradox that both fascinated and repulsed her: her continued existence, a testament to her sister's sacrifice, yet fueled by the very powers she deemed a "sin."
Alfia spent countless hours simply observing Bell. He was a creature of pure, unadulterated innocence, his crimson eyes wide with an insatiable curiosity that mirrored Meteria's own. He rarely cried, a blessing to Alfia's sensitive ears, and seemed to possess an innate calmness, perhaps a reflection of the serene, if often melancholic, presence that hovered over him. Unlike other children she had distantly observed in Orario, Bell was not boisterous or demanding. He explored his small world with a quiet intensity, his tiny fingers tracing the rough grain of the wooden floorboards, his gaze lingering on the intricate patterns of sunlight filtering through the cottage window. He was a child of the quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic world she had left behind.
Her internal conflict, however, raged unabated. The guilt over Meteria's death was a constant, gnawing presence, a phantom limb of sorrow that never truly healed.1 Bell was a living reminder of her sister, a beautiful, innocent echo of the life Meteria had given up. Alfia would often find herself staring at her own hands, the very hands that had wielded the devastating
Genos Anglius against the Leviathan, the hands that possessed the "sinful" power she believed had stolen Meteria's vitality.2 How could she, a being so tainted, guide this pure soul? The thought of teaching him magic, of drawing him into the dangerous world of adventurers, filled her with a cold dread. She envisioned him inheriting her "curse," succumbing to the same debilitating illness, or worse, being consumed by the very power she despised. She had seen the horrors of Orario, the endless cycle of violence and ambition, the ultimate price paid by the Zeus and Hera Familias.4 She wanted to shield Bell from all of it, to keep him safe within the quiet confines of their sanctuary.
Zeus, with his knowing eyes and sagacious smile, was a frequent, if unobtrusive, visitor. He would arrive with provisions, fresh water from a mountain spring, and occasionally, a small, hand-carved wooden toy for Bell. He never pushed, never demanded, but his presence was a subtle, constant encouragement. He would sit by the hearth, his voice a low rumble, recounting tales of heroes and gods, of grand adventures and noble sacrifices.5 Bell, even as a toddler, would listen with rapt attention, his eyes wide with wonder.
One crisp autumn afternoon, as Bell napped peacefully in his bassinet, Zeus settled into his usual spot by the crackling fire. Alfia, meticulously polishing a small, silver locket—a gift from Meteria—sat opposite him.
"He grows quickly, doesn't he, Alfia?" Zeus observed, his gaze warm as it drifted towards the sleeping child.
Alfia's fingers paused on the locket. "He does," she murmured, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Too quickly, perhaps."
Zeus chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Is that the Silent Witch I hear, or a worried aunt?"
Alfia's serene expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Both, old man. More the latter, these days. He has Meteria's eyes. Her innocence." She looked at her own hands, then back at Bell. "How can I… how can I guide him? My powers… they are a sin. A theft. I fear I will only taint him, draw him into the same darkness that consumed us." 1
Zeus leaned forward, his expression serious. "Meteria's wish was for him to live, Alfia. To live a full life, free of the curse that plagued you both. Her miracle ensured his purity. Do you truly believe her sacrifice was for naught? That her love would lead him to darkness?" 3
Alfia flinched, the words striking a chord deep within her. "No. But the world… Orario… it is not a place for innocence. Not anymore. Not after what happened." Her voice hardened, recalling the banishment, the scorn, the brutal end of their era.4
"The world is what we make it, Alfia," Zeus countered gently. "And Bell… he is meant for great things. You know this. You feel it. Just as you feel the profound purpose that keeps you here, tethered to this life, to him, a continuation of Meteria's wish."
Alfia was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the sleeping Bell. "He listens to your tales of heroes, Zeus," she finally said, a hint of weariness in her tone. "But those stories… they are often incomplete. They gloss over the cost, the blood, the despair. The sacrifices are not always glorious. Sometimes, they are simply tragic."
Zeus nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Indeed. And that is where your wisdom comes in, Alfia. You temper the idealism with reality. You prepare him for a world far more complex than any fairy tale. He needs both. The dream, and the understanding of its price."
As Bell grew, his personality began to solidify. He was observant, often preferring to watch and listen rather than immediately engage. He possessed a quiet intensity, a deep well of curiosity that Alfia recognized as a nascent form of her own perceptive nature.1 He was meticulous in his play, arranging his wooden blocks with a precision that hinted at a developing discipline. He would often bring her small, smooth stones or wildflowers he found outside, offering them with a silent, earnest gesture that spoke volumes.
"Look, Aunt Alfia!" Bell, now a toddler, would exclaim, holding up a particularly vibrant blue flower.
Alfia would take it, her fingers brushing his small ones. "Beautiful, Bell. What did you notice about it?" she would ask, encouraging his observation skills.
"It smells like… like sunshine!" he'd declare, burying his nose in the petals.
In these moments, Alfia felt a warmth spread through her chest, a feeling she hadn't known since Meteria's passing. It was a fragile, unfamiliar emotion, but it was undeniably there. The cottage remained a haven, its quiet broken only by the rustle of leaves outside, the distant chirping of birds, and Bell's soft laughter.
Alfia, despite her lingering illness, found herself moving with a newfound purpose. She would prepare Bell's meals with meticulous care, her hands, once accustomed to wielding destructive magic, now deftly peeling vegetables or kneading dough. She would read to him from old, worn books Zeus brought, her calm voice filling the small space, the words weaving tales of a world beyond their secluded valley.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Alfia began to heal, not just physically, but emotionally. Bell's innocent presence was a balm to her tormented soul, a living testament to Meteria's enduring love. Her guilt, while still present, began to transform into a fierce, protective instinct. The "sin" of her powers began to seem less like a curse and more like a tool, a means to ensure Bell's safety, to protect this precious, pure life that had been entrusted to her. She still hesitated to fully embrace the idea of training him, to expose him to the dangers she knew so intimately. But the thought, once a terrifying prospect, now held a nascent flicker of possibility. Bell was growing, his potential undeniable, and Alfia knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that she could not keep him hidden forever. The world, with all its dangers and its promises, awaited him. And she, the Silent Guardian, would be there to guide him, to protect him, and to ensure that his destiny, unlike her own, would be one of true heroism.
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