Hephaestus woke to a den that felt dark and cold, shivering uncontrollably with it. He felt horrible, like he was going to sick up all over the den, and the need to do so made him quiver still more with the urgency of it as he fought back the feeling. "Mama!" he cried out, in his illness for once not caring how mature he appeared, wanting only to have his mother take care of him, to make this sick feeling in his stomach go away. Tears streamed down his face, already wet with them by the time he had awoken, despite every effort to hold them back. They dripped to the floor and in the darkness seemed black and thick, like blood from a wound. The iron tang of blood seemed to scent the air as well as he stared uncomprehendingly at his own tears of the den floor. "Mama?" Hephaestus whimpered again.
