He looked down. Small fingers. His. A child's hand was held tightly by someone else. A woman with red hair. She was looking down at the baby lovingly and happily for a moment. Even with the happiness in his eyes, there was sadness. She was looking at the child in her arms as if she wanted to imprint her image into his mind, so much so that she looked to have stilled. The child had a full heard or red hair.
His breath caught. Did he once have a head full of red hair like his mother? Why did it go black then? A tear escaped his mother's eyes. She looked delicate yet strong at the same time.
"No…" he whispered. He turned swiftly. Suddenly, the picture was clearer. Her mother was sitting in her own blood. Her face was streaked with soot and blood, her breathing uneven, eyes wide but focused.
