Breathes. Micol Fusca

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       A night without stars... dark... cold.

      He waited for the Red Moon to reach its zenith before he got up. His nurse's tweets had stopped worrying him for years. He had seven.

      Though Alissa was an enormous woman, there was nothing scary about her. Hers was the only breast he had ever breast-fed: his mother had died after giving birth to him.

      His father had offered asylum to her sister at a difficult moment. Her husband had lost his lands due to the vice of gambling and found herself on the street with a leather bag in which she had hardly put a pair of clothes.

      He had been happy to entrust Nephelim to a relative. Veridiana, his cousin, was a year older than him: he knew she was destined to be his wife.

      The Elvish tradition of mixing blood only with relatives was felt as an act of conscience towards the race: purity above all values. It was the peasants who copulated randomly, like animals.

      So it was what they taught to him.

      He walked to the little one's room on his tiptoes: he had been born in the morning. He had not stopped crying from the first breath.

      A strange cry, with no voice, that tormented his heart. He peered through the door ajar, watching the nurse cuddling the new-born baby in her strong arms; she was walking back over and over in trying to calm him.

      «Has he eaten?» he stepped forward, forgetting to be careful.

      Alissa gave him a mischievously annoyed smile, raising her eyebrows. She knew he had been waiting for the adults' sleep to come to her. «He's too weak. He can't suckle,» her gaze grew sad. «The healer doubts he can survive more than a few days. His heart is sick.»

      Nephelim approached, bending her lips in a thin line. He was a soldier's son, used to the truth no matter how rough it could be.

      «Have you tried?»

      The woman gave him an annoyed look. «He should stop crying, smart-ass. He's not strong enough to attach himself to the breast.»

      Nephelim became obstinate. «Isn't there another way?»

      Alissa searched in her memory. «When I was young, I saw a lamb who had lost his mother, who rejected other sheep's breasts. The shepherd wetted its mouth with a cloth dipped in milk. In the end, he decided to feed himself. I could try: if he accepts the cloth, I will try to bring it closer to my breast so that a few drops at a time could go down and slide between his lips». Then he seemed to remember that the landlady's instructions were clear. «Nephelim... I do not think your aunt would approve. A sick child is a problem, a bother. He'd die anyway. »

      «Not today.» It was decided by now. He extended his arms out to her, waiting for her to give the baby to him. «My father is far away. It is an order: mine is the only that must be respected in his absence. »

      The nurse bowed slightly, with a smile on her face... He was destined to command an army, his temper was known to servants and family. She handed the new-born baby over to him, making sure he welcomed him gently into his arms. Nephelim supported the little head with a firm hand, careful not to weigh him down on his fragile neck.

      Alissa walked away with a thrill. «It's a dark, starless night. Not even the Red Moon can brighten the sky. A night of bad luck.» She was suddenly reminded of the child's unexpected question.

      « What is his name? »

      «Dalain. »

      Nephelim smiled.