My First Memories:
My given name was Cassian, meaning "empty" or "hollow"—a fitting name for the life I've lived. My father, Aldous, never gave a clear reason for bestowing it upon me. Perhaps he saw my fate, or perhaps he truly believed I was a bad omen. My dear mother, Beatrice, always claimed I was named for the night she bore me: a full moon on a desolate winter night, with the wind howling like a ghost. I can't be certain if that was the true reason or simply a way for her to console me, a way to soften a name that always felt like a curse.
I was the third son.
My world, as a small boy, was contained within the high, rough-hewn wooden fence that bordered our land. The scent of turned earth and wool was the air I breathed. Our small farm was a patchwork of greenset pastures, stretching down to a thick line of trees, with the entire grazing area overseen by a massive, ancient oak tree that stood alone in the center of the field like a silent giant. The heart of the farm was our home: a rustic, three-bedroom cottage built of dark, heavy timber and wattle-and-daub, topped with a thick thatched roof. It sat near a sturdy, equally rustic barn where we sheltered our prized sheep and stored the meager harvest. Everything was practical, built for function, and stained by years of sun and rain. We were peasants, yes, but favored ones, producing the finest sheep and largest vegetables for Lord Hannington, the Lord of the Land.
I had two older brothers, though only the eldest truly captured my father's attention. Edmund was his pride and joy. Even when I was a four-year-old boy, Edmund was already a tall, sturdy child who was the spitting image of our father. He had soft, curled brown locks and matching brown eyes that held a quiet warmth. Edmund was clever and kind, absorbing everything he was taught. Every morning, long before the sun even hinted at rising, he would head out with Father to herd the sheep.
"The farm will be in good hands as long as Edmund continues to live a good and honest life," Father would often say, a satisfied sigh escaping him. The future of our family, it seemed, rested on his broad, young shoulders.
My second-oldest brother, Ellis, was only a year older than me. We were thick as thieves, our closeness in age forging an unbreakable bond. He was a mischievous child, always exploring and getting into trouble. Mother would scold him or force him to help with the strenuous farm work as punishment, and more than once, Father made him go without dinner for his antics. Yet, Ellis never stopped living freely, and for that, I always admired him greatly. He looked much like Mother, with the same dark eyes and dark hair, and a thick brow that would crease when he frowned. Following him on his explorations gave me the same sense of freedom he seemed to possess, a welcome escape from the monotony of our daily lives. Ellis was my shadow and my shield; I was his audience and his quiet conscience. He was the only person who seemed to truly see me, Cassian, not the empty, hollow name.
I was the frail one. Though I can't attest to my days as a baby, my mother often spoke of my suffering with sickness. "Every day we would expect to awaken to your cold body, my child," she would whisper, holding my small form close to hers. "Only through God's divine mercy did you make it through that harsh winter when I bore you."
These are my earliest memories, from the tender age of four, lying close to my mother in the small bed she and Father shared. Her scent of fresh herbs and cooking oil soothed my young mind. I would stare at her sleeping face, etching the image into my memory for comfort. Beatrice was a sturdy woman, handsome to look at, but not delicate. She had dark brown eyes, so deep they looked black unless caught in the sun's light, and thick, dark brown hair that curled towards the ends. She was a woman of strength and quiet indifference in most matters, but in my younger years, I saw her softer side more often. She was in charge of most things around the farm, even playing a critical role in helping our prized sheep give birth. I deeply loved and admired my mother; she made sure we had full stomachs and a safe home.
My father, Aldous, was a stern man of few words, and his favoritism was clear and cutting. At the tender age of four, I only knew that when Aldous's eyes landed on me, they were like river ice—hard, flat, and the cold radiating from them made me tuck my hands tight to my sides. He smelled of cold smoke and old, damp leather, a scent that always meant work and distance. This gaze was utterly absent when he spoke to Edmund. I would stand near the doorway, listening for the sound of my own name, and hearing only the clipped, sharp splinter of sound when he finally noticed me, compared to the deep, proud bass when he addressed my eldest brother.
When I would ask Mother why he treated me this way, she would simply tell me to accept him as he was, just as she had. When she pulled me close for comfort, her words were like thin winter blankets—they couldn't stop the deep, cold ache of not being wanted that solidified in my small chest.
Aldous had a rugged, handsome face, much like Edmund. Fine wrinkles were etched across his forehead, a map of his constant worries and hard work, and a thick brown beard covered the lower half of his face, making him look older and more imposing. He rarely smiled or laughed and paid us little attention until we were old enough to be put to work.
In his own way, he was a good father. He went without so we might have something more often than not. He labored from the early morning until late at night, a slave to the hot sun. For this, I can be grateful, even if I couldn't understand the reasons for his dislike of me.
Whenever Lord Hannington came to the farm to inspect the grazing grounds, a palpable tension would hang in the air like a thick, heavy fog. I remember seeing his entourage of knights from the window when I was four. In the days leading up to the visit, Father's mood would sour with each passing hour. He would drink wine late into the night, the clink of the bottle against his cup a constant, nerve-wracking sound. He would curse at Mother for the house not being clean enough and threaten Ellis and me.
"Ellis, I don't want any of that mischief you bring with you, or I'll give you a whipping with the cane! Cassian, we shouldn't see you at all." His eyes would glare at me, trying to bore a hole through my skin. His words were a command, a stark reminder of my insignificant place in his world.
Once the Lord and his entourage left, Father would return to his 'normal' self, which meant praising Edmund while ignoring Ellis and me. As a young boy, I would feel a deep frustration, but I couldn't get angry at Father if Mother said nothing. I knew Ellis also felt this frustration, but he would only voice it when the two of us were alone.
We would retreat to our own small world, built out of mud and whispers behind the barn. "I hate how Father only praises Edmund!" he would say, his voice low and full of bitter energy. "It's not fair! We could be as good as him if Father would only look at us.""If he'd give us a chance, we could make him proud, too! Don't you think, Cassian?"
I would always respond with a resounding "Yes!" Being so young, I felt heard and seen by my older brother. This shared resentment made us all the more closer.
Edmund, of course, never treated us badly. In fact, he would sneak us treats and let us pet the sheep when Father was gone. Father had even given Edmund a special, newly-filed iron hook for sorting the wool, an object that felt like a powerful symbol of his status. Edmund would teach us about the sheep and their wool, explaining what it was used for. I remember thinking that Edmund truly was as capable as Father said. And if Father was right about Edmund, then perhaps he was also right about Ellis and me. This thought would quickly be pushed away, but it lingered in the back of my mind.
Over the following months, Ellis's bitterness grew like a weed. His games became more reckless, his anger more visible. I secretly wanted to know if Ellis felt the same cold resignation as me, so one day when we were playing by the large oak tree in the pasture, I finally got the courage to ask.
"Ellis," I started, picking at the mossy bark, "do you ever think… that maybe Father is right about why he ignores us? That we're not worth his time?" His response was the first time we didn't agree.
"Why would I think Father is right about me?" Ellis's voice was laced with a bitterness that took me aback. "He doesn't know me. Father only likes Edmund. He only sees Edmund. He doesn't even bother to hate us. How could he be right about us being less, Cassian?"
I felt a sudden, heavy coldness settle over me. Up until that moment, I thought being invisible to Father meant we were free to be ourselves. Ellis's words suddenly ripped that flimsy idea away.
"He doesn't see us, Ellis. We get to play under the oak! We get to be free!" I protested, trying to cling to our old truth.
Ellis only shook his head. He kicked a clump of dirt into the root system of the giant tree. "He doesn't see us. He just sees two boys who are not Edmund. And he is right about that much, isn't he?" His voice cracked, and he quickly looked away, scrubbing a hand roughly across his wet eyes.
After that day, I never asked Ellis about Father again. His words stuck with me, but it was the look of anger and profound sadness on his face that I'll never forget. The moment passed, and Ellis forced a smile for me before we went back to our play. But the truth of his words hung in the air between us, a new shadow on our childhood bond.