HERA
My younger brother hasn’t always been my only sibling.
Before they died in the attack on our village, I used to be the first born of four children.
I had two younger sisters and we were born with barely a moon’s harvest between each of us.
So in the years when my father was alive and we had enough to eat and little to nothing worrying our tiny little hearts, we would play in the large lush grounds surrounding our manor.
We would play house, sneaking out my mother’s cookery pots to make and occasionally eat little mud cakes and bowls of sandy flower soup.
We would run around, skinning our knees and ignoring our mother’s warnings as we played catch and sunflower hop.
And when my brother grew old enough to run around with us we would go on great, far off adventures to find buried
