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The grandiose door was swung open by the worried father, who hastily made his way towards his ailing child's crib, his eyes wandering in worry towards the child's face.
Claude had only been informed of his child's sickness a few moments ago; he had been by the side of his sickly wife, but he wasn't able to contain his worry for his child, Artemis, for much longer, and so he had run from his wife's room towards his child's.
Words couldn't explain the pain his heart was feeling; it felt as though it was being ripped apart and thrown to the ground, mercilessly being crushed under other people's feet. His hands shook with fear.
Fear of what could happen. 'Artemis.' 'My child, please be well.' 'Please, I cannot lose you.' 'My little dove don't leave us.'
The child in question lay peacefully in his crib, his face as pale as could be, yet this didn't take away from the beauty that the doll-like child possessed; in fact, it only emphasised it. The child was able to perfectly mimic what a porcelain doll would look like: pale skin, otherworldly beauty, and more.
Alas, this child was anything but a doll; he was a human, and his breathing had become so shallow that it nearly went unnoticed if it were not for the keen and watchful eyes of the physicians, who worked to keep whatever ounce of the baby's weak body together.
Claude stood there in the miserable atmosphere, which had also begun to slowly consume him. He remained still, as he was still rendered speechless at the scene in front of him. His precious child, albeit one who was clumsy and irritating, was close to the brink of death.
"Artemis." Claude whispered quietly, as if not to disturb the child's sleep.
Slowly, Claude, the child's father, pushed gently through the large crowd of people and approached the crib where Artemis lay. Claude kept his eyes purely focused on his child, who lay there in his crib, not showing signs of whether his child was alive or dead.
As an Emperor, it was Claude's duty to always show a strong front, and so he was forced to never show weakness, but as a father whose child was tiptoeing between life and death, he could.
And so he did.
Claude gently moved his hands to touch his child's hair; he softly ran his hand through the short, vivid black hair, which heavily contrasted the child's pale face. After a moment, he finally built up the courage to look at his child's face.
