Change of Perspective

In the vast tapestry of life, the threads of duty and care weave a pattern that binds us all. Whether through the innocence of a child or the wisdom of a mother, the essence of our existence is illuminated in our connections to one another. To nurture and protect is to acknowledge the sacred responsibility bestowed upon us, a reminder that the smallest acts of kindness and the weightiest decisions alike shape the destiny of those who follow. Through the shared journey of growth and guidance, we come to understand that every soul, whether young or old, plays a crucial role in the ever-unfolding story of humanity.

**At the time of Birth**

Lyra's world changed forever the moment she felt the first pangs of labor. The memory was seared into her mind: the pain, the struggle, the overwhelming surge of emotions. It was as if time had slowed, each second stretching into eternity as she fought to bring her child into the world.

The room was dimly lit, filled with the hushed whispers of the midwives and the concerned murmurings of Roxy, her loyal maid. Lyra's grip on Roxy's hand was vice-like, her knuckles white with the effort. The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a relentless, all-consuming force that threatened to tear her apart.

"Breathe, my lady," Roxy urged, her voice calm and steady despite the worry etched across her face. "You're almost there. Just a little more."

Lyra took a deep breath, her body trembling with exertion. She could feel the pressure building, the overwhelming urge to push. She bore down with all her might, every muscle in her body straining with the effort.

And then, all at once, the pressure released. There was a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief as the child slipped from her body. Lyra's head fell back against the pillows, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

The room was filled with the sound of a newborn's cry, a high, thin wail that brought tears to Lyra's eyes. She looked down to see the midwife holding a tiny, squirming bundle, wrapped in a soft, white cloth. The baby's face was scrunched up in indignation, his little fists waving in the air.

"He's beautiful, my lady," the midwife said, her voice filled with awe. She carefully placed the baby in Lyra's arms, and Lyra's heart swelled with love as she gazed down at her son.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gently touched his tiny face, marveling at the perfection. His skin was soft and pink, strands of dark blue hair, and his dark green eyes in curiosity looking into hers. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She leaned in close to him and tenderly kissed his forehead.

"Welcome to the world," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "My beautiful baby boy."

Then he fell asleep. The same could be said about me too. The exhaustion of the day and the emotional turmoil had taken their toll, and soon, I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the familiar, comforting weight of my son nestled against me, his tiny body stirring as he sought nourishment. I could feel his little mouth moving instinctively, searching for the source of his comfort. As he latched on, I experienced a wave of tenderness and satisfaction. It was an intimate moment of connection, a primal bond that transcended words.

His small, warm mouth worked diligently, and I could sense the relief he felt as he began to feed. The gentle rhythm of his sucking was soothing, and I found myself enveloped in a sense of fulfillment as I watched him drink. The process was instinctive for him, a simple yet profound act that connected us in this new chapter of our lives.

As my baby fed, I felt a deep sense of peace. Each feeding session was an opportunity to bond, to nurture him, and to provide the warmth and sustenance he needed. I relished these moments, despite the relentless demands they placed on my time. It was a cycle of feeding and rest, repeated every few hours. Each time, he would drift back into sleep, and I would cherish these moments of calm amidst the busy rhythm of motherhood.

In these early days, it was challenging to maintain a sense of time. My days blurred into one another, marked only by the cycles of feeding and sleeping. My awareness of the passage of time was fragmented, as I oscillated between short periods of rest and frequent awakenings. The constant cycle of care and nurturing created a rhythmic pattern, yet the distinction between day and night became increasingly hazy.

It had been a few days since his birth, and my own sense of time was elusive. His tiny body, so reliant on instinct and reflex, moved with a certain autonomy that I could only observe with a mix of wonder and tenderness. His eyes, still struggling to focus, wandered aimlessly, yet during our moments of breastfeeding, he would occasionally make fleeting eye contact. In those precious seconds, I saw a spark of connection, a glimmer of understanding that brought me a deep sense of joy. The fleeting hints of color he saw, the delicate shades of pink, were a reminder of the love and warmth that surrounded him, even in his otherwise monochromatic world.

I carefully dressed him in his soft, warm clothes, the fabric gentle against his delicate skin. As I continued to attend to his needs, I noticed Celine watching us with a mixture of curiosity and respect. The young maid had been assigned to help with the care of my child, and I had selected her for her evident diligence and willingness.

"Celine," I said, my voice gentle but firm, "this child is now under your care. You are to serve him with utmost devotion and respect. Do you understand?"

Celine's eyes widened with a mix of awe and determination. "Yes, Madam," she responded, her voice small but resolute. "I will do my best."

I nodded approvingly. "It's important that you understand the gravity of your role. This child relies on you for his well-being, and it is your responsibility to ensure that all his needs are met with care and diligence."

Celine glanced at the baby with a mixture of curiosity and obligation. Her uniform, though slightly oversized for her small frame, was immaculate, and she wore it with pride. Her expression was one of earnest resolve, and I felt a sense of reassurance in her commitment.

As I watched Celine adjust her apron and prepare to attend to my son, I felt a quiet sense of confidence in her abilities. Her attentiveness and dedication were evident in every action she took.

As my baby continued to grow, I found solace in these moments of care and connection. Each day brought new challenges and joys, and through it all, the bond between mother and child remained a constant source of strength and love.

**Celine's POV**

As I stood in the room, feeling a mix of awe and nervousness, my eyes widened when Madam Lyra turned to me. Her gentle yet commanding presence always filled the space with a sense of authority and warmth. Today was a significant day for me, even though I was just two years old.

"This child is your master. You are to serve with utmost devotion, okay, Celine?" Madam Lyra said, her voice both kind and firm.

I nodded vigorously, trying to show that I understood the importance of my new role. "Yes, Madam. I will do my best." My voice was small but resolute, a faint echo of the seriousness I felt in my new role.

Madam Lyra's gaze softened slightly as she looked at me. "Good," she said, her tone warm but firm. "It's important that you understand the gravity of your role. This child relies on you for his well-being, and it is your responsibility to ensure that all his needs are met with care and diligence."

I glanced back at the baby, my new charge, with a mix of curiosity and obligation. I knew my uniform was neat, my apron pristine, and even though I was small, I felt a great sense of pride.

As Madam Lyra turned away, her long Victorian gown swishing gently as she walked out of the room, I remained behind, standing still for a moment as if absorbing the weight of my new responsibilities. My gaze eventually settled on the baby, and I could sense a faint glimmer of resolve in my eyes.

Moving closer to the cradle, my steps were careful and deliberate. I gently began to attend to his needs, even in my young age, feeling a quiet dedication in every action, a silent promise that I would fulfill my duty with unwavering loyalty.

As the days passed, I marveled at the baby's growth. He used to struggle with his once-heavy head, but now he could balance it with ease. He could sit upright without toppling over or needing any support. Every little milestone he reached filled me with pride and excitement.

One day, as I watched him from the side of his crib, he rolled over for the first time. I couldn't help but clap my hands in delight, feeling a rush of excitement. Madam Lyra and my mother, Roxy, were equally overjoyed, gushing over his every move. When he began to crawl around in his gigantic, luxurious crib, our delight knew no bounds.

I noticed how his eyes would light up with curiosity and how he seemed to observe everything around him. He was no longer the helpless infant I had first seen. His world, once a blur, now looked like it was vibrant and colorful. His eyes, which had often crossed in confusion, now focused clearly.

He started making sounds, stringing vowel sounds together and attempting consonants. The maids would exclaim, "He's a genius baby!" whenever he babbled. Honestly, he was just making random noises, but it felt like an accomplishment to us. He would mimic me and Madam Lyra, making noises as if he were trying to talk. We found it incredibly cute and gushed over him once again.

He also cut his first tooth recently. Watching him grow steadily, gaining about 2-3 centimeters each month, filled me with a sense of fulfillment. Every new development felt like a shared triumph.

During our strolls with Madam Lyra, I noticed the opulence of our surroundings. The estate seemed never-ending, too large to explore fully. The garden, where we often took him, felt as vast as a kingdom to someone his size. He wanted to crawl and explore immediately, but we often had to keep him from doing so for fear of it being unhygienic or that he might get hurt. However, within the mansion, he had more freedom, and I often followed him as he explored.

One evening, as Madam Lyra cradled him in her arms, I felt the warmth of her love and the weight of her worries. She whispered softly, "He is our hope,". It was moments like these that I did not understand why she said words like these.

During one stroll in the garden, Madam Lyra spoke softly to him, as if confiding in him despite his young age. "My dear, you must grow strong and wise. Your path will not be easy, but you are destined for greatness. Remember, you are our hope."

Time passed quickly, and it's been about a year now, if I guessed right. He has begun to speak one or two words at a time—he has been trying to speak for the past six months and couldn't, and he blames his undeveloped tongue and voice box. All he could make were embarrassing noises. He's been trying to communicate with me and Madam Lyra, but he couldn't—all he could do was make noises. We still felt and understood that he was trying to communicate with us—like when he was hungry, he would make noises like "miiii" and cry a little because his body had no control over his emotions.

The baths were something he enjoyed immensely. "Ce" is what he now calls me, a nickname he gave me that fills me with joy. I would take him to the baths, and together we would share these moments of warmth and closeness, the water surrounding us in a comforting embrace.

One day, he was curious about something, so he asked Madam Lyra like this, "Mom, Ce, Me, Why? Other Maids Big, why?" Basically, why was I assigned to him when I was small compared to other maids he saw. Madam Lyra found it very cute, and being his mother, she understood what he was trying to say. She first responded with, "Aww, my baby is curious. Don't worry, Mommy will tell you!" She told him there is a tradition where an aide, butler, or maid is usually assigned to the nobles, similar to how she was given a maid, Roxy, who was my mother.

Curious, he pointed to her and asked, "Mom," then to her, "Lyra?" When she nodded, he pointed at me and said, "Ce." Again, she nodded. He then pointed at himself, trying out names: "Baby? Young Master? Boy?" She shook her head vigorously and said, "No! Baby, your name is not Baby or Young Master or Boy." I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at this.

Madam Lyra's voice was heavy with emotion as she added, "You will be given a name in a few days. That's all I can say for now. I'm sorry, Baby. Mommy can't say more. When the time comes, it will either be a blessing for us or a tragedy for all of us—me, you, and Celine."

Madam Lyra then started to shed a few tears. Young Master looked shocked like he was scared. He then started slowly walking towards her and tugged at her clothes. She then got herself closer, and he wiped her face, which had little tears. Then she laughed and said, "Sorry, Baby, Mommy showed you something unbecoming of her," then she gave him a long hug.

A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether you'd like to see more of these perspectives. While they essentially repeat the same events, they offer a different point of view. If I don't receive any feedback, I'll return to Remius's POV or continue with the regular chapters. However, I might switch things up occasionally.