Characters for my RP with Ryu. Younger versions, that is.
Mila would have gotten Seryth as her Morph when she was 11, and he 15.
A leedle story of Seryth’s birth, after the page break!
When the Morph infant was born – with hair whiter even than snow, skin so pale it looked almost translucent, and eyes as red as fresh blood – the Breeder’s first instinct was to have it killed immediately. The midwife who had helped deliver the Morphling merely sighed at the sight of the little creature. She had worked for the Breeder for almost ten years now, and had seen many newborn Morphs die – either at the hands of the Breeder himself, discarded due to ‘imperfections’, or because of one of the many illnesses that plagued the shape-shifting species.
The midwife picked up the helpless, bawling creature swathed in a blood-stained rag, and laid it gently in its mother’s arms. She wouldn’t be able to hold it for long before the Breeder took it away, either to be raised separately or to be disposed of, but the old woman thought every mother should be able to hold their child, at least once.
The mask of age-old weariness on the midwife’s face was rivaled only by the expression of the Morph girl as she looked at her baby. The girl couldn’t be any older than 25, but the heavy shadows under her eyes and the wrinkles on her forehead belied her true age. Blood stained her clothes, sweat made her skin shine, and her eyes could hold only pain and tiredness. But still she looked at her little child. Nevermind what the Breeder saw – only a pathetic, flawed creature – the girl knew in her weary heart that he was absolutely perfect. Perfect like all seven of his brothers and sisters before him.
“Give him to me,” came the gruff voice of the Breeder. The Midwife sighed again, reaching out to pry the Morphling away from its mother.
The girl let out a sob. She could give birth to a hundred children, and this part would never get any easier. She knew it was hopeless to resist, so she didn’t. She gave her son – her perfect little child – to the midwife’s waiting arms. For a second their eyes – one pair young, and the other old, but both reflecting a deep sadness – met, and the girl’s lips parted.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don’t kill him.”
The midwife only looked at her wordlessly. “I am of no use to them now,” continued the Morph girl, adjusting herself painfully into a more upright position. A hand slipped in the pool of her own blood, but she regained herself. “There were three before him… that were all in some way or other, not good enough. They will not be using me anymore.” The midwife wanted to hear no more, but the girl kept talking, desperate for her child to be spared.
“My womb is unlucky. I will not be bearing any more children after him. I know they will kill me.” The old woman stared into the girl’s eyes, but there was no fear there. No space for fear when it was already saturated with tired hopelessness. The girl turned her head up to look at the Breeder standing silently close by, gazing down at the scene.
“Please,” she said again, her voice barely more than a croak. “Let me die knowing he may live.” The midwife was surprised that she had the gall to look straight at the Breeder. Most people would not tolerate a Morph looking them straight in the eye. It was disrespectful, it was outrageous. But the girl, having already accepted whatever fate that was to befall her, held his gaze strongly, despite being in terrible pain.
The midwife spoke up, “Spare him.” The Breeder turned to look at her, his expression hard. “No one will want him,” he replied bluntly. “He’s an albino, he will be weak and frail.”
“The textile factories will take him. They do not need muscle for their work.”
“He will be scorned and ridiculed. They will see him as unlucky.”
“Spare him,” insisted the midwife stubbornly. “As a favor to me. For that time I helped your wife when she was having a difficult birth. As a token of appreciation for helping to bring young Alfie into the world.”
At the sound of his son’s name, the Breeder’s expression softened a little. He stared at the old midwife, then down at the poor Morph girl shaking in her filthy clothes, and sighed heavily. He was tired. He didn’t want to have to answer to his superiors about this. In this job, it was dangerous to sympathize. But for once, he allowed a tiny semblance of compassion to grace the hardness of his heart.
“I hope I don’t regret this one day,” he grunted. “Take him to Nursing. They will turn you away, direct you to the Disposers, but tell them it was my order.” With that, the Breeder turned away to see to his other duties, not turning back to look at either of the Morphs.
Once the Breeder had retreated, the two women shared a look again. The Morph girl sunk to the floor once more, exhausted. She gestured weakly to the midwife, and the old lady bent forward. The girl lifted her head, bringing her face close to the Morphling’s rabbit-like ear.
“I love you,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy and filled with pain, but as gentle and loving as any other mother’s. “You are my dear, dear son, and you are perfect to me. Absolutely perfect.” The young mother whispered sweet, secret words into her baby’s soft ears, and touched his little face once, before laying her head down once more and closing her eyes, waiting for an attendant to take her away from this room. Waiting for death to take her away from this world.