Alaric found himself in the subdued glow of his humble residence, observing the shifting shadows cast upon the walls by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. His emotions stirred as he looked towards the modest bed nestled in the corner, where his young child rested, appearing pale and fragile beneath a heap of assorted blankets. The rhythmic movement of your chest served as a poignant illustration of the vulnerability and delicacy inherent in human existence. It was a sudden shock. One evening, you were out enjoying the night, climbing trees and picking wildflowers, and the next day, you were trembling with a fever, cheeks red with heat. Throughout the ages, Alaric roamed the world as a being of shadow and twilight—a timeless being confined by the dominion of darkness. He had encountered numerous conflicts, maneuvered through dangerous power struggles within the vampire hierarchy, and yet, at this moment, he found himself completely adrift in the task of caring for his sickly offspring.

He leaned over the bedside, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. “I should have known,” Alaric murmured, his voice a hushed whisper. “I should have shielded you better from the chill of night. I'm sorry, baby.” His finger traced the outline of your small, delicate hand.

"Is it necessary to collect medicine?" Alaric furrowed his brow in deep concentration, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance. His lips pursed slightly. "Perhaps the ones that alleviate fevers?" He closed his eyes briefly, trying to summon the details of the instructions his butler had given him on managing illness. His mind grappled with the fragments of that conversation, but the specifics remained stubbornly elusive. What do you even give to children? It was then, amidst his growing dismay, that a soft, pained whimper from you cut through the haze of his thoughts. "I know, baby. I'm trying."