A Mother's Sorrow

*At Elara's house*

Elara's mother sat beside her daughter, her hand gently caressing Elara's hair, her thumb softly brushing her cheek. Her face was etched with sadness, a deep, maternal sorrow. She wanted nothing more than for her daughter to be well, to be free from the torment that plagued her. She watched Elara sleep, her brow furrowed, her breathing still slightly uneven. The peace her magic had brought was fragile and temporary.

She rose from the chair, a sigh escaping her lips. She remembered the first time, the very first time this had happened. Elara was only five years old, a small child with wide, innocent eyes. The crying had started suddenly, violently, a heart-wrenching sound that tore at her mother's heart. It wasn't the cry of a child who had scraped a knee or lost a toy. It was a cry of profound loss, a grief so deep it seemed to emanate from the very core of her being.

The memory was vivid, painful. She had rushed to Elara's side, her own heart pounding with fear, only to find her daughter curled in a ball, sobbing uncontrollably, her small body shaking with the force of her sorrow. It was a grief that defied explanation, a pain that seemed to have no source in the present. It was then in that moment that she realized something was terribly wrong.

The episodes had become more frequent, more intense as Elara grew older. At least, she thought grimly, Elara no longer resorted to self-harm. In the early days, the panic and sorrow had manifested in a destructive way, Elara scratching at her skin, leaving angry red welts in her distress. They had managed to curb that particular manifestation of her pain, but the underlying torment remained a constant threat.

This state of hers was dangerous, she knew. If left unchecked, if Elara were allowed to succumb to the darkness that threatened to engulf her, the consequences could be catastrophic. Her power, even at sixteen was immense and barely contained. In this fragile vulnerable state, her self-destruction could have devastating repercussions, not just for herself, but for those around her. A single outburst of uncontrolled magic could level a city, wipe a kingdom off the map. The thought terrified her.

She walked to the window, gazing out at the peaceful landscape, her mind filled with worry. Oh, Enzavie, she thought, her voice a silent sob in her heart. What am I going to do? She called out her husband's name, not aloud, but in the depths of her soul, a cry for help, for guidance. Enzavie. A man of wanderlust and quiet brilliance. He should be here with her, with their daughter. But he was gone, chasing his own demons, his own quest for understanding.

He wouldn't understand, she thought bitterly. He wouldn't understand the fear that gnaws at me, the constant dread that something terrible is about to happen.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, her head throbbing with stress and worry. She felt so alone and so helpless. The weight of her daughter's pain and the responsibility of protecting her, the fear of what she might become… it was almost too much to bear. And she felt that, she was also reaching her limit in all of this.

Her research was not bearing any results, the ancient texts she found in the cave that resonated with her daughter remained stubbornly cryptic despite years of tireless study and isolation at the Magic Association she created for her. Being a 7-star magic grandmaster seemed to not be helping either; she'd reached a plateau, the secrets of the eighth star stubbornly beyond her grasp.

"At least Enzavie can go on his journey to reach 8-stars in his swordsmanship," she murmured to herself, a flicker of wry amusement in her voice, "I guess being a 7-star grand-swordmaster isn't enough for him." A soft smile touched her lips as she reminisced about his utterly ridiculous, yet undeniably charming, flirtatious nature and his flawlessly handsome features. She glanced at her daughter, resting fitfully on the bed. "I guess she takes after him after all." A sigh escaped her.

"Maybe it's their genes or something, but they're all so effortlessly beautiful, it's almost unfair, plus they're geniuses, while I have to bleed and sweat to get to where I am." A playful pout momentarily softened her worried expression, quickly followed by a flash of irritation at the perceived imbalance. Then, her heart plummeted, a cold weight settling in her chest. But that's the reason why she's like this... having so much raw, untamed talent is... also a curse for her, I guess.

She looked at her daughter with a heavy heart, the earlier annoyance replaced by a wave of profound empathy. Giving her all that structured work and diligently practicing her magick seems to be working though, because this episode, however distressing, was undeniably shorter, the tremors less violent than the previous ones.

A loud sigh escaped her, her fingers pressing harder into the creases forming on her forehead, the physical manifestation of her relentless stress. "Why did she have to be born with ancient magick?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if seeking an answer from the silent room, from the very air that surrounded them. It felt like grasping at a viper, a dangerous solution born of desperation, because her own considerable and near mastery of Spirit Invocation magic, hadn't yielded any answers.

Reaching 8-stars in her magic was a monumental task, one that required a fundamental shift in understanding, a connection to magic and spirits on a level she hadn't yet achieved. If she, with all her experience and dedication, couldn't unravel the mysteries of this ancient magic, how could she possibly save her daughter? The realization was a bitter pill to swallow, a stark acknowledgment of her limitations when it came to saving her own child.