Fireflies | √

I

My brother, William, and I grew up together in the Libredock Estate. It was a vast land with a Victorian-styled mansion perched atop of a small hill and the rest of the land were either lush green gardens or a small forest. Every spring, the gardens would have a joyful display of colours and the small forest would have a song of spring. After all, isn't that what spring is all about? Joy, love, awakening, and a new beginning.

William and I had an age gap of four years. He was born in 1893, and I in 1897. Despite our age gap, we had a close relationship. We would spend hours playing with each other, no matter if it was hide-and-seek, a game of teas and dolls, or board games. William may be the next heir of our ancestors' name, but he would always find time for me. That, he promised.

"Little Eli" was what he would often call me, even after we both had our puberty, even when I am no longer a little girl. At times, it would infuriate me, but he will laugh it off and still call me by that stupid nickname and ruffle my hair. Stupid brother, he was always so cheerful, that I, at times, envy him.

When he was 20, my brother went to join the military. It was so unlike him to go and fight or argue with someone, what more a war. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps, he was influenced by the propaganda of warfare. Two weeks before William signed up to join the battle, my father had spoken to him about the war. He had encouraged him, and I guess that was what made William sign up for the battle - he wanted to please father.

'Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori' was the main topic during those days, especially with rumours of a great war like never before coming up. It could be a matter of days, it could be a matter of weeks, but the only two things that mattered were the safety of our motherland and that it is sweet and honorable to die for our motherland. One is not truly a man unless they go to war and become a hero. That was the definition of the phrase 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori'. It scared me to see William leave and play a game of blood and glory. But at the same time, the thought of him returning home a hero relieved me.

The night before the day my brother was to leave, we held a feast among our close relatives and prayed for his safety. We enjoyed ourselves fairly much, and each and every one of us took turns to wish him the best. When it was my turn, a million thoughts rushed through my head, and I find myself incapable of forming a complete sentence of luck without stuttering. He chuckled and seemed amused at my incoherent strings of words, but he knew what I wanted to say and thanked me after.

It was the dawn of autumn in 1914 when he was bound to travel to the trenches to fight against the Germans. He was 21 by then, and that morning he appeared cheerful as usual even though I knew he was almost deterred by the fact that he will be missing home and reunions, and that the possibility of never seeing us again are high. But William, being William, remained his happy and serene demeanor. Father hugged him first, and wished him the best, followed by mother. He thanked them, and mother soon burst out crying and had to be comforted by a servant.

I stepped forward, and engulfed my brother in a hug as tears threatened to flow. His chest reverberated with deep and rich laughters as he returned my embrace.

"Take care of yourself, dear brother. Please do," I told him.

"I will, and so will you, I hope," he said, amusement laced in his voice.

"Remember to write back, and please return once in a while," I reminded him as I pulled away from the hug.

"I will."