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She finds herself in a thick darkness, one that does not allow her to see even her hand before her face. She knows not when she got here, or how long it has been since then. Time's flow does not even seem to exist in this place; it lays as stagnant as the cold, damp air, which fills her lungs with each breath.
The only source of warmth she has is the child in her arms. By touch, she could tell it is not even remotely Nabatean: four legs, iron-scented slick covering its matted sticky fleece, wet nose buried into the crook of her elbow. Still, she knows it as her child, and with the solace its presence brings with it, she knows it must be true.
Of course, being in an unfamiliar place like this also makes her heart fuss over it so. Is it warm enough in her embrace? Is it afraid finding itself in this darkness, perhaps? But it lays quietly, bubbling soft breaths as it suckles on the tip of her finger, and she feels at peace.
And then it began to cry. It whimpered softly at first, then wailed louder and louder. Somehow, she knows it is hungry. She tries to soothe it for the time being — rocks it back and forth, strokes its back — but it continues to cry, unaffected. The only way to soothe it, it seems, is to feed it, but there was nothing on her person, and she doubts there would be anything to find here, if she can even find her way around. She has to make a decision, and it will not be easy for her.
As it cries and cries, she steels herself, reminds herself that she is its mother. If it hungers, she must feed it, at any cost.
She sets the babe down on her lap, and with a blade she cuts into her breast. Blood trickles down her skin as she saws and saws. It was painful — of course it was painful. Her very being was ripped apart. But the thought of stopping only fills her with dread — if she does not persist, the child would starve. Her child would starve.
Eventually, a piece of flesh separates from her, as warm as her ragged breath. With a trembling hand she brings the piece to its lips. It stops, sniffs, then takes the flesh into its mouth. She hears it swallow loudly, eagerly, then whines for more. Readily she cuts another piece of herself for it to eat. She continues to feed it this way, until the blade scrapes against her ribs, at which point it is finally sated. It curls up in her lap, and she hears a yawn before it settles down to sleep. Snores bubble softly in the space that was previously filled by cries. She settles down as well, exhausted, holding her child close to her as she shuts her eyes.
Cichol awakens in the dead of night.
"That dream again..." he mutters to himself, crawling out of bed. He ruffles his hair to make it fall over his ears before stepping out of the room. Cethleann was in the next room over; every time that dream ends he has the urge to see her. As usual, she laid unmoving, not a single strand of hair out of place, her breathing light and her cheeks pale. Cichol smooths out her hair anyways out of habit. His fingers brush against the shell of her ear, finding it cold to the touch. He pulls away as if he had just burned himself, clasping his hand in the other. When he reminds himself that she still draws breath, he calms down.
He touches the tips of his own hair. He hadn't had the time nor energy to trim it, and it now grew to the length of his chest. That wouldn't do. When Cethleann awakens, he must keep it together, as her father.
Slowly making his way to the bathroom, he winces at his reflection in the mirror. Eyes drift away from his unkempt beard and towards the scissors he left on the sink. Cichol starts to snip away at his hair, cutting it to a neat shoulder length. Trimming his beard came next; dark green hair fell like shed skin. For a moment he considered leaving his face bare instead, but he is certain it makes him look less dignified, and he cannot ever get it clean enough anyways.
When he looks in the mirror, he is the perfect picture of Cichol, the Hammer of Judgement, the father of Cethleann. And he vows to remain that way for the rest of his life.