Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Pisces' waterfall is a roar in one's ears, all-consuming. The shining pyrite placed on the edge of its pool grows in cubes, shining and slick from wetness. Still, if one focuses, they can hear the subtle sound of droplets flung, landing far from their original stream. Drip, drip.

He does not breathe, exactly. Does he even live, inside the glistening shell of his chrysalis? He certainly is not conscious of it; the little lamb tucked all up in his womb, sharp hooves pressed into crystal. He sleeps, dreamless. Peaceful, blissful, ignorant.

He shifts. Something shifts with it; shatters, breaks. He does not know this part. He only knows the part after: the part where he is suddenly awake, hooves scrabbling on slick stone, almost threatening to fall into the pool with a silent bleat.

The little one scrambles back from the edge, eyes wide: the first thing he knows is tumbling water. The waterfall is so immense and so unnamably larger than him that it's all he can do to stare, uncomprehending. His ears pin back, flick-flick, at the sound.

The second thing he knows is cold. His fur is damp and slick to the skin with a mix of birthing-fluid and a steadily growing amount of water; he shivers, stumbling away from the 'fall with a quiet, unhappy bleat. His head lifts high and his little nose begins to sniff, sniff—looking for someone that should be with him at his hatching, because he knows deep down in his soul that he shouldn't be alone right now.

He wants to find his mother. Where is she?

His ears are not sharp enough nor his reflexes fast enough before the lamb is caught by the scruff. His quiet bleat echoes out into the cave, only halfway muffled by the waterfall, little legs kicking at the air for purchase.

He does not find purchase. He does, however, find his mother's eyes, head tilting up, up until he can see her.

She smells like him. This is enough to calm his beating heart, to still his movements until he is merely dangling like a stringless puppet in her hold.

Mother smells warm, and soft, and a little like rot—not that he knows what rot is, knows nothing about the magic they both share. To him, that is simply mother. It's a good smell. It's a home-love-warm-safe smell, and he listens to her voice with rapt ears.

Isaac's voice is so soft it threatens to be swallowed up by the waterfall. "Maaa..." His goat's bleat gives the sound a vibrato, almost like a purr. "Ma-ma."

Thump. The dull sound of Isaac's head hitting the rock, punctuated by a small, bleating cry. It hurts. It hurts a lot, especially for a little kid who has never been hurt before. It makes tears well up in the pools of his small, dark eyes, threatening to spill over.

But then mother is picking him up again, and her voice is soft as ever, and she doesn't sound very worried about this, or the pain. She says sorry. He is too young to know how to hold a grudge, especially against mama, who he loves very much; but the sound is nice, and he sways a little in her hold and blinks the tears away.

It's fine. Everything is okay, even though his head still hurts a little.

"Mama," he says in that feather-down voice of his, and then his legs are kicking at the air again. Not because he's scared, or because he wants to be put down; just that she is warm, and soft, and he wants to be closer to her now. He cranes his head and stretches his neck towards her as if maybe he could reach, if only he tried hard enough.

In the cradle of his mother's body, Isaac finds peace.

It breathes, soft and shallow, butting its head up against his mother's chest as she grooms it. Little hooves skritch against the stone floor as it stretches, tilting its head back, up and up until it sees the dark sky of its mother's eyes once more.

It blinks at her, tired. It has been a long first day, and it is very sleepy, now. It is so easy to be lulled by her; by her warmth, by her smell, by the sensation of being close, comfortable, loved.

He is loved. This is undeniable.

It is sleepy, too. So sleepy. With a content sigh, it tucks himself up; back legs under the body, front legs stretching straight until they are laid over one of its mother's own. At this angle, its stone is almost swallowed up by his chest fur; but a glimmer of it remains, gold against all the white and grey of the world.

It settles its head on its legs and looks her in the eyes. No thoughts, not really; nothing to say, either. Just looking up at her and acknowledging that she is there, close, warm. Safe.

It just all happens so fast.

For a moment, he lingers in that state between consciousness and unconsciousness; on the brink of sleeping, on the brink of waking. He knows nothing but the fact that he is warm, and the waterfall's sound somewhere distant is so sweet and soft; that his mother's breathing is in his ear, and that her scent is surrounding him.

He is so close to knowing nothing at all. For a moment—death's jaws at his neck, and all he registers is the warmth of his mother's breath on his fur.

A jolt. He goes toppling as his mother's leg lifts sharply from under him; rolling, soft fur cushioning the blow but not enough to prevent another bruise on his little head, another sharp bleating sound quickly swallowed by the waterfall.

His hooves scrabble on the slick stone. Sleepiness dulls his reflexes, weakens his body; all his mind is is cloudy confusion, worry, a steadily growing sense of fear. "Mama!"

He finds purchase, hauling himself to his hooves. Already, the cold is seeping in again. Already, his little body is beginning to tremble. "Mama?! Mama!" She was saying something. He doesn't understand.

Dark eyes go wide as he looks around, all sleepiness gone, replaced by anxiety. Where is she? Where is her voice? He can only smell her a little, now; the dry spot where she was lying on the stone floor, already being spattered once more by wetness.

He inhales as much as he can, little chest puffing out with the effort.

"Mama!"

Nobody answers.