Sorrowful Beginnings

“I’m so sorry. I cannot bear to look at you- all I see is him. Gods, forgive me; I know this child has done nothing wrong; heaven knows that he hasn’t even been alive long enough to commit a sin, let alone get a taste for the air he breathes...”

The woman held the child to her breast, his hand tucked firmly against the back of his head. The child did not cry, nor did he fuss; there was only the slight flexing of his fingers into his mother’s blouse as she held him so dear. It was wrong, of course; a battle of morals waged in her mind, a sea of bloodied thoughts… but as she despaired in this field of narcissus, she knew that this product of depredation was something she could not suffer for much longer. With a kiss buried into the mess of soft violet that served as the infant’s hair, she hugged him impossibly close until the small hand fell.

-----

Sun crept through the hospital room blinds, reaching along the tiled floor and stark-white sheets, until they found a woman, barely breathing, clinging to life. Her breath caused her chest to fall in an uneven rhythm, her skin pale with the tint of impending death. Her eyes were closed, veiling an uneasy sleep, barely containing unpleasant dreams brought on by events long since passed. A gentle aroma of flowers slowly permeated the quarters, seemingly bringing an air of calm about an otherwise dreary place.

It had been easy enough to slip by the denizens of the hospital, lacy ears swivelling at every sob and cry, every prayer for help to any god imaginable; for those of his kind, places such as this were rich in the negative energies that the children of the stars thrived on. Thoughts of despair and anguish were absorbed and replaced with a gentle, if unnerving sort of calm that most humans would come to call acceptance. By the time he had reached the woman’s room, he was nearly overwhelmed with the sheer amount of ardor he had acquired.

“Mother.”

The word was little more than a breath as a small smile curled at his lips. It was an expression of longing, of sorrow; but most of all, it was an expression of understanding. Finding himself perched on her bedside, Siunattu would take her hand in his own, the chill of her flesh rivaling his own. The pad of his thumb rubbed small circles over her knuckles, humming a soft lullaby as she slipped away.