Charlie floated in the dim haze of his half-formed body, his awareness drifting in and out, until something began to nag at him. It was subtle at first, a faint sense that something wasn't quite right. But over time, it became impossible to ignore.
The flow of nutrients coming to him was… less. Less consistent, less rich, less everything. He couldn't see the outside world, but he could feel his mother's body working harder, straining to provide.
She was eating—he could tell that much—but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
"What's going on out there?" he thought, frustration sparking in his mind. Was there no food? Was something stopping her? The faint trace of mana that had once accompanied the nutrients was almost gone too, replaced by a hollowness he didn't like.
Time passed in an uneven, sluggish rhythm. He tried to focus, to push his awareness outward, but nothing worked. Whatever connection he might have once had to the world beyond her womb was gone, leaving him trapped here, blind and helpless.
"Damn it," he muttered inwardly. He hated this—hated not knowing, not understanding.
Her body, despite its weakening state, was still doing what biology demanded, pulling from its own reserves to sustain him. But even that wasn't enough. He could feel the strain in every weak pulse of energy that reached him. Her body was trying to protect him, but at what cost?
"What are you doing?" he thought, not sure if he was addressing her or himself. "Why aren't you eating more? Can't you tell this isn't enough?"
He let his mind settle for a moment, trying to make sense of it. He didn't need to be told she was running on empty; her energy spoke for itself. But why? Why wasn't she taking care of herself? There were too many questions and not a single answer.
Days—maybe weeks—dragged on, and it only got worse. The flow of nutrients slowed further, a thread stretched so thin it felt like it could snap at any moment. His mother's body was running on fumes now, cannibalizing itself to keep him alive. It was a losing battle, and he knew it.
He clenched his awareness inward, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He had cheated death once—clawed his way back from the brink—but now he was stuck, unable to do anything but float and wait.
"Is this it?" he thought, bitter and resigned. "I survive hell just to starve before I even have lungs? Great. Real poetic."
But anger wasn't going to fix this. He had no tools, no power, no way to act. He hated it, hated the helplessness, but there was nothing he could do.
Nothing.
The thought echoed in his mind, heavy and sharp, until it pressed into his chest like a weight. He hated it, but he couldn't change it.
Some things were inevitable.
Her weakness. His helplessness. The slow, suffocating pull of their shared struggle.
But he wasn't done yet.
He focused on the faint rhythm of her heartbeat, still steady despite its strain, and clung to it. As long as it beat, there was a chance, however slim. It didn't guarantee survival, but it meant the fight wasn't over yet.
That was the inevitability he understood. Not victory. Not failure.
Just the next moment, and the one after that.
He couldn't do anything now, but he would hold on. He would endure. Because some things couldn't be stopped.